Sometimes I feel like I have plodded through the most monotonous sort of life. You wake up one morning and realize that two-thirds of the thing is behind you, and that you have done less than one-third of what you wanted to do and meant to do. You find yourself quite suddenly up agaisnt a deadline, and your work barely begun. You decide therefore that you will hurry from now on, you will burn the midnight oil, you will light the candle at both ends. And then you take a nap.
You curse the fates for having arranged things differently than you had planned for them to do, and then you realize that you yourself have been largely responsible for the course of your own fate. And so you curse yourself instead.
What about all those years you spent inside a vodka bottle?
What about your own decision to marry the one whom you knew you shouldn't have? Did not everyone tell you so at the time?
What about that book you were writing--the one you were going to return do, and never did.
Well, what about it? It is all done with, after all.