What a classic white male mid-life crisis I’m having.
The ‘pump’s calendar is full and billings are at an all-time high. I have a life most Londoners dream of. House, business, fully engaged with the cultural scene. I’m happy. But… not content.
I used to hack through jungles, swim in ancient Balinese temple pools, bike across islands in the Indonesian archipelago. Now, I’m a suited professional who thinks Triathlon is an extreme activity (OK, it is, but that’s not the point. It’s extreme for a normal person, not for me.)
I’m respectable. Normal. Settled. Old, the way so many mid-twentysomethings are old, in the sense that they’ve already made their life choices and are effectively DEAD even if they won’t stop moving for another fifty years or so. Lacking the sluicing rush of killer edge that makes life *living* instead of *existing*. I’ve become what I most feared: just a face on the Tube. I like anonymity, but not anodynity. (Sp?)
So after five years back in the UK, I think it’s time for a career break. Maybe I’ll take a month, or a summer, or a year. Never be afraid to destroy things, especially when they lead to other things. Need to take some time to think.