I do not intend to retire. And one of my fondest hopes is to die in the middle of a project. Perhaps a book, or a series, or an essay. I do not fancy a quiet end where I, having finished all that I was “meant to do”, embrace my death contentedly.
This means, that for me, there will never be a single project which I will be able to call “my life’s work”. I will always be looking ahead, towards the next — hopefully better — thing.
This means that I will never be happy with what I have done, that the moment a project stops being the present and becomes the past, it will begin to reek of failure and incompetence and I will not be able to stand it.
This means that everything I am ever going to do will be — according to my own standards — shit.
This means that will always consider myself incompetent and lazy and incapable of creating things of great worth. This means that the kind of happiness people experience for having done good work, will never be mine.
In front of me lies a frightful sadness and an unending darkness. I walk towards it slowly, steadily, knowing full well that I will drown there and die.
But before I hit the bottom of this sea and come to rest with the fishes, perhaps there will be glory. Perhaps it will be recompense enough for a life of misery. Perhaps in the final reckoning, I will be able to say that I did my best.