Warning, rant ahead. Beware indiscriminate use of italics and capitals.
List books. I hate them.
Is it 1001 things you must do before you die, or 101? I don’t even know. But there are lot of those books. Songs you must hear, books you must read, places you must go, movies you must see, gardens you must visit… And the implication being if you can’t tick all these things off, you have FAILED. Your life is lesser than that of some A-type personality rushing around listening, reading, movie-watching, travelling, visiting… it makes me want to just lie on the couch and watch really bad tv for the rest of my paltry days rather than join this band of list-ticking desperados.
Really these books should be subtitled PLEASE GIVE ME A REASON TO LIVE. I bet once you’ve ticked all these babies off, you’re still left thinking… okay that was good… so is that it? But no-one ever ticks them off, do they? Because people know, really, that even if everything could be ticked off, that the hollow space inside the heart and the panicky feeling the contemplation of mortality brings on, will still be there. We all just want to believe it will make a difference. We can do lots of stuff, but how much of it really means anything?
My wish is to live the life I have now with the most care and attention I can. That seems more important than filling someone else’s criteria of worthy stuff to do.
That’s another reason I adore having dogs around. They have no lists. They’re not rushing around trying to get stuff done, or proving anything to anyone, or wondering what is the point of it all? They’re just here. They are. And it’s good.