“I saw that my life was
a vast glowing empty page
and I could do anything I wanted.”
– Jack Kerouac
The thing is, I thought I knew what I wanted. I had my whole life planned out at the age of 23.
What the fuck did I know at 23?
I had so many options. I could have done anything I wanted to do. Instead, I pigeonholed myself not realizing that 15 years later, some of those decisions would come back to haunt me.
What do you do when the rest of the world thinks your life is a bestseller, and all you want to do is feed the pages to the flames?
I walked away.
Two years ago, I woke up every morning knowing. I knew so much. I always knew everything in advance, I had a plan, I was prepared.
I don’t know what I know today. I know more, but it’s not the simple things like who I will hang out with this weekend or what I am doing this summer or how I will pay the bills. I know none of those things.
I have a pen. I have some paper. I can write whatever story I choose on that vast glowing empty page. And, tomorrow, if I don’t like that story, I can crumple it up and start over again. Some mornings, my floor is bare. Other mornings, I wade through a sea of crushed paper on my way from the bed to the coffee pot.
I kick yesterday’s mistakes aside, pour a cup of coffee, and start writing again.