Publish that novella, build an OS, converse in Mandarin, release an indie game, publish that other novella, dominate a continent --

It's not enough to breathe -- my gluttonous heart wants to impose its imagination on Earth and all its inhabitants.

I want freedom, money, affection, play, power, validation, fulfillment, etc.

Of course I already have these things, but enough never seems enough.

These desires manifest themselves as an endless backlog of ideas and projects.

My backlog grows; my lifespan dwindles. I feel powerless against this trickle of time. When my optimism hits its limits, I mourn so many stillborn dreams -- breaking my back to bury impossible futures.

I want to want fewer futures, but I'm often too weak to put possibilities out of their misery. I'm learning to let go, but maybe letting go takes a lifetime.

My brain came pre-installed with Human OS; loss aversion will squander CPU until I install security patches (e.g. Taoism, Zen, stocism).

But I think I'm allergic to enlightenment. Meditation is difficult, quiet is boring, courage is scary, desire is addicting, etc.

"Dream themes" are my spiritual duct-tape. When desire outpaces optimism, I distill my projects into metaprojects [sic].

A metaproject is an itch which scratches many itches.

So many bites. Scratching harder, clawing at skin, fighting flesh -- loss is inevitable under these conditions. Ignore that immediate irritation and erect a mosquito net. If your net works, it'll crowd with friends, finally finding relief from similar itches.

Metaprojects agglomerate. Your nets' threads tend to tangle together into an anti-mosquito tapestry. In those chaotic quilting patterns, you develop vocabulary to describe/distinguish distinct itches.

Your ultimate metaproject is precisely you and inevitably whoever you choose to become. It never feels that way. It feels like you're building an OS, learning Mandarin, writing another novella -- no, no -- you're writing an autobiography with blood.