
I started reading Wild yesterday in anticipation of future directionlessness: I will need to find myself, too, in one way or another. Or, at the very least: Form more firmly—in the coming weeks—a path toward what I am to become, whatever that may be. See, I have always just fallen into things; I wave off Big Decisions with a wildly thumping heart yet an airy, "I'll figure it out." And I usually do, because I have a staggering amount of self-preservation [to offset my denial of foresight]. And I picked up Wild to very laterally approach the very thought of having to think about the future. I'm not going to figure it out now, no. But I need a semblance of direction; I need to know where to start. And although none of these decisions will be spurred the same depth and breadth of sorrow that Strayed's were, I can only approximate her fear for the future. Fear and, yes, occasional denial of. It's what I do, you see: I pick up books. [Continue reading.]