Having been pointed to How I met my wife by Jack Winter (The New Yorker, July 25, 1994) new forms of words have been popping into my head (such as transigent).
I don't know where time goes (in a metaphorical sense, rather than a 4th dimensional one) but somehow there are too many things to do which require time, and not enough of this said time to do so.
I have 20+ DVDs I would like to rent and watch merely on recommendation, I have myriad restaurants I'd like to try and many more to return to, I have stuff to do but just don't get around to it.
I want to return to places (Israel, Italy, Canada, Japan...) but for one of those destinations in the near future, I am not sure when I'll next get there.
I would like to write - about what I know not - but just to write for writing's sake (or for no reason at all). I need to paint in spite of my artistic limitations. I should get my piano tuned and disturb my neighbours... the ephemeral nature of music - created and lost so quickly (330m/s approximately) - yet itself a artistic creation on paper.
Strangely, there is nothing preventing any of this but some unseen, self-imposed, hurdle.
A nihilist I am not (Walter Sobchak: No, Donny, these men are nihilists, there's nothing to be afraid of. - The Big Lebowski) and I do a lot more than nothing (though some would debate this). I'm just seeking out how to attain some pursuits when there are finite constraints on what you can do.
There is no solution - it's an empty set - but this doesn't detract from aspirations. It is merely something to ponder and strive towards.
So, press play on the CD player with Glenn Gould interpreting Bach's 24 Preludes and Fugues (you can hear him singing if you listen closely), throw down an drop sheet and mantle your easel, take anything profound or inane as a catalyst and be creative...
Creativity and taking the plunge far outweighs any result that may transpire.
The quote:
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport.
- William Shakespeare
