I dream of rain

As a digital packrat, my archives are replete with echoing memories. Of places, of times, of people. Each reminding me of what was, what could have been, but most of all, what is, and how little it has changed.

How is it we run so hard from the past, yet get stuck in the present, unable to move towards a new and different future?

Perhaps this is that source of quiet desparation that Thoreau went on about. The knowledge that there is so much more out there; The knowledge that eludes your grasp; the knowledge that your grasping is ineffectual.

I still have that feeling that I was meant for something more than this current drifting medocrity, but hell if I know what it might be. Without a direction, the future is an accidental reaction rather than a willful action. It took me a long time to learn that even inaction is itself willful.

Still, despite my many mistakes, there are few regrets. But even those were necessary; who can say what I might (not) have learned? Then again, have I really learned anything?

I certainly hope so. I know less than ever before.