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Five-Year Plan
Hiro: "I've got a five-year plan."
Fred: "Cool, I've got the next two and a half hours planned, and then I'm winging it."
25
I am scared that this is all there is to life. That I will keep going like this, day after day, month after month, year after year. That nothing ever changes. I am scared that this here—this mundane, every day life; this perpetual grey; this unending process of waking up in the morning, going through the same routines, never feeling like I’m doing anything of importance at all—that this is all there is to my life. That I will never go further than this. Never go beyond the borders of the here and now. I am afraid of the ordinary, scared of the unimportant and the unremarkable. The thought of going to an office or retail or factory job every day for the rest of my life, stuck here in this village of a country, is one of my biggest fears. That idea paralyses me. There is so much anxiety in the concept of perpetual irrelevance. I know that in the grand scheme of things I don’t matter. That there are over seven billion people on this planet and that I don’t stand out among them. And I don’t want to—I don’t care about being famous or known or something like that. But I am scared of that irrelevance, scared of mattering so little that by the time I and all those who knew me are dead, it will be like I have never existed at all. Nothing more than a few numbers in some database somewhere, possibly a name on a grave stone somewhere else, although I doubt even that. Oblivion is my biggest fear. I don’t want to be forgotten. I want to last. To keep existing.
I’m only 25 and I already feel like I’m running out of time. That every day that I don’t know what I want in life is a day wasted. Comparatively our time on this planet is minuscule. It is so finite. Human existence is incredibly finite. And I am terrified of that. I have always been enamoured with the idea of immortality. Angels, demons, vampires, other supernatural creatures gifted—or doomed, however you like—with the ability to live forever. And I know why. They have so much time. There is no timestamp, no expiration date. They can continue to be until the universe collapses into itself and vanishes forever—or however our known existence ultimately comes to pass. But they have more than your average eighty to ninety human years here on this blue planet. They have all the time in the world—and then some. I have 75 years, if I’m lucky to live to be a hundred years old. It has taken me twenty-five years to sort of figure out who I am and doing my best to make that person a reality. I don’t want to spend another twenty-five figuring out what I want to do in life as that person.
I am not sure where this fear comes from. This fear of running out of time, of wanting to last, to not be forgotten by the next century. It is not completely unnatural. Humans have felt the same fear for thousands of years. Wanting to live on, wanting to be remembered. And they found a way to be remembered, to have their legacy live on. They had children. And those children had children, and so on. I don’t want children. I never wanted children. And I never understood the want, the need for them. My fear of being forgotten, of not being remembered, is not something having children fixes for me. It’s not what I’m looking for. I want to keep living, I want to keep existing, to keep being around. Not just my memory, some stories told around the dinner table at Christmas, fondly remembered. This idea does nothing to calm my fear, my sheer terror of not being able to live forever.
So what do I do? How do I quench those fears, how do I live my life to the fullest every day without fear that it might not be enough, that it might not suffice, that once I’m gone it will all have been for naught? How do I do that?
I’m still trying to figure out what I want in life. I have some vague dreams, some barely conceptualised wishes. I’m bad at that. Conceptualising what I want. What I need. I can barely express what I feel, never mind what I want. I know what I like. I like movies, tv shows. I like books and stories. I like the cinematic medium, the visual medium, the written medium. The inherent human need to tell stories fascinates me and is alive in me, burning with a passion. We are all storytellers, in some form or other. And I think—I think—that’s what I want to be. But I have no idea in what form. I enjoy writing. I want to write. But I also want to make movies. I want to be involved in movies, in tv shows, no matter the capacity. Hell, I’ve said for years that I would find joy in just bringing coffee to people on a movie set. I know these things. But those are big dreams, big wishes. These are things that you can’t just make happen with a magic word. You need to find the path to get there. And finding that path in a country as small as Switzerland? Incredibly difficult. I have no idea where to begin. It feels unattainable. To write and work in English movies in a country with four different national languages none of which are English. I just—I don’t even know where to begin.
I am 25 years old and in half a month I’m starting my Master’s in English Literary Studies here in my country. Ideally, that is gonna take me two years. I can stretch that to three years tops. Ideally, by then, I will have figured out what I really want in life. Where I want to go, what I want to do, and how I will get to that point. I’m trying to be kinder to myself, so I’m giving myself until 30 to figure it out. Finish my studies, hopefully get some good work so I can pay off my loan and put some money aside for two maybe three years. And then by thirty, I want to know. Ideally, I’d even like to be there already.
So, I guess, in the words of one Chuck Bartowski: I’m working on my five-year plan. I just need to choose a font.
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