This will come across as incredibly cynical, which perhaps it is, but there isn't a modecum of self-pity involved. I have no dreams. I don't aspire to be a rockstar or an author or to have fame or glory or anything anymore. More and more I feel like a walking shell.
I've struggled vehemently with what it is I want to do with my life. But I recently arrived at the realization that maybe you don't always have to have dreams or lofty goals. What's so bad about being content with existence, with discovering value in the smaller things ("smaller" as coined by our culture).
I still love music. I love imbibing it and hopefully crafting it someday. But I can't keep flagellating myself for misspent time devoid of honing skills that I wish I now had. It's useless.
Still I have the relocation bug. The only substantive things keeping me here are the scant kindred friends that barely constitute a handful (if you have to ask...) and of course the comfort of familiarity. Point being, I'm stagnating. Once I thought I was destined for great things. Not that long ago, actually. But now I'm just aging, seemingly the only talent I've mastered during my tenure amid this mortal coil. And it's noone's fault but my own, yet exacting change seems to be some herculean task for me.
So, fuck it. Whatever I end up doing may not be ideal, but it will be at the very least something..