It’s late, and nothing is wrong. Your job is fine, maybe even good. You have people who love you. Then you read about someone who left law to build violins in a small town in Portugal, and something in your chest tightens with a strange kind of recognition. That could have been me. Maybe it still could be.
By morning you’ve half-designed three new lives. One where you go back to school for the subject you abandoned at nineteen. One where you move somewhere with mountains and write. One where you finally start the thing, whatever the thing is this month. None of them is a plan, and all of them make your actual day feel slightly smaller.
People have probably called you a perfectionist. It’s the closest word most of us have for this restlessness, and it fits badly. You may have high standards, yet what keeps you up at night is the distance between the life you have and the lives you can imagine.
There’s a better word for that: idealism. And it needs its own kind of care.
Two different aches
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