I’m 28 years old. I don’t feel 28 years old, but I’m aware that most ages don’t have a feel to them. I feel young. I feel old. I feel like a lot of my past years were wasted, and I feel like I’m making up for a lot of that, even though consciously, that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m spending my time as strictly as I am because simply, I want to be better. This is a continuous process that will only end with my grave. At least that’s the hope, except for the dying part. That part can wait.

I turn 29 in May. I’m almost 30. I don’t know how to feel about that. I think I’m not going to feel much of anything next May. 30 will just be another age I have a year to live with. Sometimes these numbers give me a sense of urgency to merely do more. I haven’t done this, or I haven’t done that. What am I waiting for? I ask myself. Just do it. Obviously, that’s easier said than done, especially when the things I want to do would span across many lifetimes. So I pick and choose what I want to be spending my time on. Transcribe the Great Gatsby? Yes. Organize the notes in my Commonplace book? No. Well, not yet. Write my novel? Yes. Travel to Europe? Not yet. Ask a girl out? Well…

Life is short. 28 came by fast. It feels like I just started freshman year at USC. It feels like I just graduated from college. Hell, it feels like I just graduated from high school. There’s no blueprint to how to live a good life, but many writers have recorded their thoughts in timeless books that try to help us live better. It feels like I’m learning how to live every time I wake up. Every time I repeat my daily routines, I feel like I’m doing them for the first time. But I don’t, and I have a long history of progress I can reflect on and be proud of.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. I didn’t have an introspective type of day. It was a very normal day. It’s been a past couple of normal days, as evidenced with last night’s entry. I guess my mind is on the vicissitudes of my life. Maybe I need to change it up again. Maybe I need to take a few more risks. Or maybe I’m just right there on the edge, but I need to do just a bit more to feel better. I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t know where I’m going.

I can fill my days with all the most productive things a man can do in 24 hours, but what’s the point if there’s no reason to it? It feels like some of the things I do have no reason to them, but they do. I just can’t see it yet because they’re incomplete. At least I think so. Well…

Writing is hard. Writing is long. Writing really has no external rewards, at least not for me. I’m not earning any money writing my novel or writing my blog or transcribing the Great Gatsby. The internal rewards are vast and priceless, though, but is that enough? Do I yearn for more? I don’t know. I’ve only lived for 28 years. Maybe I need to live another 28 before some of these questions have answers. Who knows?