As I entered the train compartment, I looked at a middle-aged woman who had just dug a piece of snot from her nose and into her mouth. Unabashedly and busily talking to the woman on the seat in front of her. The corners of my mouth curl in disgust as I sit down on a seat elsewhere and open my book to read. I put my music on pause for now. Apparently, I can’t do two things at the same time right now. I read a story about a man who travels to Australia temporarily to pick himself back up again. He had just gotten out of a relationship and got kicked out of the house. The story moves me, and that surprises me.
I close the book and use an app to keep track of where I left off in the story. So that complete strangers on the internet can see how fast I read. It becomes of good use when you’re reading a book together with a group of people and want to talk about it. This way, you can see exactly whether you are already further ahead in the story and can therefore possibly give away plot points while discussing it together. But I don’t have a book club, and, because of that, there is nothing to discuss with people. So I write down my progress in the void. It makes me feel lonely.
I can do without all those apps if that could be the cause, but it won’t change my feelings. Sometimes it feels a bit like life rushes by faster with every year of life that passes. This is not true, of course, but maybe I used to live a bit more in the moment than I do now. That is sometimes quite difficult with all those adult obligations. Wake up, have breakfast, work, lunch, work, go home, dine, relax a bit, and sleep. And then do it again until the next day off. And then come all the social obligations. A tight schedule of people who want to meet in every open agenda spot. I immediately understand why I don’t ‘live in the moment.’ I dream through the day.
All my current stories are like the diary of a thirty-something enduring a small existential crisis. Previously, my stories were about men, going out, and social issues. Now my stories are about feeling the passage of time and future choices. My house, my job, and my life. My god, how terribly boring I must have become to some.
Taking a year off feels like a dream. But with my current job, I can’t even take a sabbatical. If I don’t want to do anything for a year, I will have to live off my savings. And that’s for something else in the future. The great bright future that is still foggy and dark for now. Not dark as in negative, but I just don’t know where it’s going yet. And that makes it exciting and very interesting, I guess.
The next two years will determine it all. A big promotion or a different job? Staying in Rotterdam or moving to a different city or town? Should I travel more or finally invest in a driver’s license? Will these years be filled with happiness or sadness? Whatever the choices are, I will grow. And be happy without having to eat snot as a snack on the train. But who am I to judge that lady?
Martijn Winkel 