36 years-old and the sweet dream of
playing the poet in the sonnet of my life has lost its airy nature. I have
realized that I spend a lot of time planning. Despite the usual (budget, work, random
beauty secret of the week) I then plan a time to be happy. And it never comes.
It’s very waiting for Godot. And I’m very much sitting atop that fictional hill
and thinking that something better will come along any moment and fix
everything. What was that thing about carpe diem, again?