For nearly a decade, I had this plan to plan to die when I turned 30.
Get my house in order, achieve the goals I set, live a full life, finish well. Anything after 30 is extra.
The overall execution for this plan might have been doomed from the start. But I kept the theme. A few friends reminded me of it. Like they’d been waiting for it, anticipating it, wanting to see what I’d do.
Last week, closing out the workweek early on Thursday, I felt like I was leaving a lot of loose ends. Wednesday wrapped up clean. Thursday, though, opened a whole new batch of open ends that I had to leave for my coworkers to pick up.
“I wanted the last chapter to have a feeling of closure,” I told a friend. “Instead, it feels more like a good first chapter, where the author opens all these loops so you’ll want to read more.”
Closing my twenties in general, not just at work, feels like this, like right at the end, a whole bunch of loose ends.
Some books end that way too, with a last chapter like that. They set you up to want to read the next one.
This is what dying is like.
