Nowhere to Go and Nothing to Do

As I sit here writing this, I find myself envying strangers.

Somewhere, I imagine, there’s a person working at a day job, who, once the day is done, will find themselves with nothing to do.

I think of somebody like that, and a little part of me wonders what that must be like.

Before I go any further, let me say the following things:

- I’m a writer and I love being a writer.

- I do theater and I love doing theater.

- I have a day job and I like my day job.

- I stay busy and that’s my choice.

Okay, maybe we need to talk about the last one.

I think there’s a chance I might be addicted to being busy.  Although, I feel bad throwing the word “addicted” around the way everyone else does—“I’m addicted to coffee,” “I’m addicted to exercising,” “I’m addicted to various cheeses.”

(That last one is me.)

I do feel like…Well, how can I put this?

I feel like I’m becoming more and more aware that I have a finite amount of time on earth and during that time, I need to win an Oscar, have (and successfully raise) at least five kids, and discover a cure for death so that I never die so that I can do all those things and the rest of the stuff I’m probably never going to do on my bucket list.

There’s that ugly term:  Bucket List.

I fucking hate that term.

The very idea of a bucket list makes me want to curl up into a ball and hide in a dark crawlspace somewhere.  My bucket list gives me anxiety.

Even if I break down the bucket list into smaller subsections, those subsections give me anxiety.  Take, for example, the “Writing Ideas” section of my bucket list.  The list of ten or so plays I’d like to write one day.  I look at that list and I cry.  I weep actual tears—this is no exaggeration.

Why?

Because I know most of those plays are not getting written.  Now, some of them won’t be written because once I actually sit down to write them, I’ll realize that the idea for them isn’t that good, and that’s fine.  I can accept that.

But some of them won’t get written because they need to be written now—Right.  Now.  And once the inspiration for them passes, that’ll be it.  They’ll be dead.  And someone else will write them, and I’ll end up seeing them, and I’ll hate the person wrote them, but more than that—I’ll hate myself for not finding the time to write them in the first place.

It’s a hatred I’m becoming more and more familiar with as I get older.

I think of when I was younger and how much time I spent doing absolutely nothing and I want to scream back in time—What are you doing Six-Year-Old Kevin?  Why are you just playing with action figures?  You have no day job, your homework is easy—WRITE SOMETHING!  Help me out here!  Put down the Ninja Turtles and get to work!

And that brings me to what I want and those strangers I envy.

Because I want to be productive, and travel, and write, and act, and listen to podcasts, and read tons of books, and stay caught up on television shows, and exercise (not really, that’s a lie, I’m sorry), and learn how to be better at things, like cooking or not spending money.

I want all that…but really?

I really just want to do nothing.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I want to do nothing and be fine with doing nothing.

Like, I want to be at peace with that.

I want to spend a week sitting on a couch staring off into space and have the week end and not want to flagellate myself for wasting precious time.

Right now, if a day goes by, and I haven’t made any progress on That Fucking Bucket List—and yes, I do officially refer to it as That Fucking Bucket List—I berate myself.  I feel awful.  Genuinely, to-the-core-of-my-soul awful.  It’s crippling, and ironically, it makes it difficult to get anything done, so it just creates a vicious circle.

Now, do I ever get stuff done?

Of course I do.

But the amount of stuff I accomplish versus the amount of stuff I think I could accomplish if I worked harder, tried harder, just stopped sleeping altogether and really dedicated myself?

It makes the stuff I actually get done look like the tiniest pile of nothing.  It makes it look microscopic.  Insignificant.  In my head, I imagine showing it to someone—some higher creative authority—only to hear them say, their voice dripping with disappointment—

Oh…Is that all you did?

It doesn’t help that there are people who’ve done so much.

I mean, have you seen the list of books Joyce Carol Oates has written?  Or John Updike?  Have you seen the list of plays Alan Ayckbourn has written?

Let me use the word “crippling” again.

It’s crippling.

You start to get that sinking feeling—that sinking feeling of—

You’ll never catch up.

And of course, people respond with—It’s not a competition.

But…isn’t it though?

I mean, if it weren’t, why would we give out awards for stuff like that?  Why would there be lists like “Best Writers Under 40?”  Or “Top 5 Books by this Prolific Author?”  Or articles with titles like “This Kid’s Nailing It and He’s Only 5!”

You can all say it’s not a competition, but…I think you may want to converse with the rest of the world, because somewhere, the wires are getting crossed.

There’s a message being sent out, and the message is—

Stay.  Busy.

And so I dream of not being busy.

I dream of ignoring that message and not giving a fuck that I’m ignoring it.

I dream of doing my day job every day and then going home to…Nothing.

No lists.  No tasks.  No endless life goals.

No Fucking Bucket Lists.

I want to live a life that is absolutely meaningless but totally lovely nonetheless, because it’s calm and uneventful.  I understand that everyone’s life is eventful to a certain degree, but I’d love just the normal events, the regular ups and downs, and no perceived failures such as—Fails to Be the Youngest Person to Be an Emmy or Never Visited All the Continents.

I’d love to think about those failures and just shrug, like—Oh well, lots of people never do that stuff.

I want to have it not gnaw at me constantly.  I want to not hear that voice saying—

You’re not going to be special.  You’re going to die, like everybody else, and people will forget you.  Unless you work harder.

And the scary thing is—people who are worked a lot harder than me and achieved a lot more than I’m ever going to achieve, and were, undeniably, very special—they’re going to be forgotten anyway.

If the bar is—I want to be unforgettable—well then…

You better really do something worthwhile.

It makes you understand why people run for President.  Although, let’s be honest, nobody really remembers President Hoover.  Ask any fourteen-year-old if they know anything about President Hoover, and they’ll look at you as if you’re pranking them like, Wait, was he really a…?

I digress.

I envy people who just live and don’t worry about whether or not they’re living for any particular reason.  I know some of those people are probably just as tormented by not having unrelenting ambition as I am for having it, but I can only sit on one of the grass, and so I find myself envying them.

I find myself wanting what they have, or at least, what they seem to have.  The life they seem to live.  The time they seem to waste.

I want that.

And I feel guilty for wanting it.

And then I think—

Oh, I should write about that.  I should write about what I’m feeling…or should I write something else instead?  Something that isn’t so whiney.  Or personal.  Or self-involved.

Maybe I should write about…

…Or should I finish that book?

Or make that phone call?
Or run that errand?

Or go back and read that article I saved two weeks?

See what I mean?

All I want is nowhere to go, and nothing to do.

And nothing to say about it either.