And finally he gets to the obligatory quarterlifing

Although, really, it hasn't been quite as bad lately, due to greater excitement (read: stress, but closer to eustress than distress, most days, anyway) at work. After all, who would have time to worry about such vague fluffy things like a sneaking sense of directionlessness, or a lack of perceived agency, or the feeling that the past twenty-three years of existence haven't - on the balance - amounted to much, or, in short perhaps, a fear of just "not getting" something terribly important (and terribly obvious to everyone else), when (whew) there are much more clear-cut concerns to deal with, like bug reports and deadlines and task lists?

Still, well, ahem, I guess I would have to admit here that I would. I would always have time to worry, it's just the way I'm wired, and the way I've comported myself for most of my life, though it never really showed to people who never got to know me. To most, I was and am just that quiet harmless dude with a reputation for being smart and aloof, and some have even called me carefree, oy, little do they know.

Don't worry though, gentle reader, I'm not about to launch into that practiced, desperate roll call of everything that, over the years, I've determined to be wrong with myself and my life. We've had just about enough of that over my blogging lifetime, haven't we, and now it's time to grow up and move on. Instead of dwelling on the negatives and on feelings of helplessness and doom, why not look forward and ponder solutions? 

I once believed with all my heart and mind (such as they were and are) that enlightenment would eventually come if I just continued mentally chewing the cud. The act itself also held a strange, masochistic allure, or maybe it just became more comfortable to worry about the same things over and over than to actually act and do something about them. I didn't think I knew what to do, I couldn't get out of the cycle of thinking, and so I bemoaned many ruts and periods of depression. (Clinical sufferers may scoff at my use of the term; I've never had myself diagnosed, but I can say those times were no walks in parks.)

Bit by bit I think I'm making progress. Right now, I do still feel as if I have no idea whatsoever what I want to or should do with my life, but it hasn't got me quite as down, and I feel as if I've also grown much less tolerant of stupid wallowing in that years-fermenting muck of useless self-recrimination. I'm grateful to be where I am now, despite still not being able to shake the feeling that it's all just been a series of lucky stumbles. I mean, if I've just been lucky so far, I should be in for even better times now that I'm beginning to actually pay attention, right?

Making lists helps, and writing thoughts and hypotheses down, anything to concretize the vagueness and thus make it manageable, even for instance this little exercise of acknowledgment and making light. Maybe it's a false sense of accomplishment that such items arouse, but at the same time it can't be denied that doing anything is better than doing nothing. (Well, in most cases, and if you keep from doing stupid things.) Move, make mistakes if you must, but just keep moving.

I promise, if I ever figure anything out, I'll tell you all about it. (Or did that come off more like a threat of more stories from a boring uncle?)