There are days I want to be selfish, that I need to get on a plane immediately and never look back. That every waking moment should be used filling my mind and drenching my soul. The experience of others is not important. It is about my journey.
There are times I feel like I don’t give enough to myself and someday I will die and that will be it. I hope I don’t regret that I wasn’t the solitary focus of my world. I know it’s a strange thought, but we come in alone and we go out alone. What if this “it’s the people you touch along the way that matter”, “doing for others is the greatest gift we give ourselves”, is all propaganda? What if it really is about what we do with our own life?
It could be the whole purpose of life is to get the very most out of it for yourself. It may be that it’s your journey and the rest is just advertising and distraction, noise. Compromise and concession to coexist with others may not be as rewarding when it’s time to leave this earth.
If that’s the case then why am I washing towels and chopping carrots? Why am I going to work? Shouldn’t I be walking the streets of Venice? I mean if the clock is ticking then why do I care if my daughter gets to school on time? It’s not about her, it’s about me and what I need.
That was so strange, typing it actually felt wrong.
I suppose the answers to my questions are fairly simple. I will eventually need to take a shower, I have to eat and Venice costs money. My daughter gets to school on time because I made a commitment, I made choices and she is counting on me. At the end of my life will that matter?
Most of the time I’m certain it will, but this morning I will allow myself to wonder. I will take a moment and tell myself it’s okay to…want for me.
I will imagine that I lock up my bookstore, rush the rainy streets of London, stop for a pot of tea and then spend the rest of daylight in The British Museum. I will eat dinner in a restaurant by a window with a small candle and a large glass of wine. When my cheeks are warm and my stomach is full, I will walk home, read a book and fall asleep thinking. Not with a running list of things that need to be done or talked about or handled, just thinking.
Hmm…why is the dryer beeping in London? There’s no laundry in London.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Overslept.