Death and . . .

I started in earnest on my taxes today. Tax time is always a period of enforced reflection for me. I have to review every trip I made in the previous year in order to claim the mileage tax write-off, so it becomes a walk down memory lane as I wade through my database, marvelling at how much has changed, and also marvelling at how little has changed. Projects come and go. Clients come and go. The work, overall, stays pretty much the same. Another year gone . . . even New Year's doesn't leave me so depressed. At least New Year's has the promise of renewal and starting over. Taxes is just about regret and dread.

I am also forced to make equally telling glances into the future: wondering, once again, how long I will be a slave to my current occupation.

Slave may be a trifle exaggerated; I am hardly miserable in my current job. I like what I do, and I'm good at it, and still getting better. But it's not quite as much fun as it used to be, either. I am starting to wonder if I can keep this up for another ten years . . . which, as current calculations run, is the soonest I might be able to escape. Even when you're doing really, really well, and you marvel at how smoothly everything is going, ten years still seems like a long, slow haul. I never had a ten-year plan for anything, before. Feels like life is running out . . . which also is appropriate for the tax season: a time to contemplate all things inevitable.