Fear of falling apart.

The thought that I could be doing more: being more productive, doing more of the things that matter, and less of the things that don’t.

My solution has been to scroll through my life, my thoughts, my fantasies, my memories, mis-memories, and the like until I have chanced upon events, people, or narratives that I can employ to divert my mind from the body in which it is encased. These mental exercises have to be interesting enough to hold my attention and see me through an intolerable itch in my inner ear or lower back; but they also have to be boring and predictable enough to serve as a reliable prelude and encouragement to sleep. It took me some time to identify this process as a workable alternative to insomnia and physical discomfort and it is by no means infallible. But I am occasionally astonished, when I reflect upon the matter, at how readily I seem to get through, night after night, week after week, month after month, what was once an almost insufferable nocturnal ordeal. I wake up in exactly the position, frame of mind, and state of suspended despair with which I went to bed—which in the circumstances might be thought a considerable achievement.

Travelling on a tour bus.

I just wanted to fulfil my potential.

Nothing. Without my past I wouldn’t be who I am today.

I only really care about my own opinion of myself, and my family and friends’ opinion of me. The rest is just noise.

Nothing is the same as the sense of pride and achievement I feel when I see my kids growing up and enjoying the simple pleasures in life.