If I was living a couple of hundred years ago, I could stand and look out of windows onto meadows of corn being moved by the wind.
I could look melancholy and no one would think me bad for it; they would probably just consider that I was an artist or a writer, someone with a tortured soul or an evil step-mother.
On the other hand, they may consider me a witch and burn me at the stake perhaps?
Do you have a plan? A vague notion at least of where your life is heading?
I had a plan; a draft outline with accompanying maps, arrows and a compass at the ready.
But it was not to be.
My map is in shreds, my plan in tatters and my life has rewound 4 or 5 years to where I was before, just older and quite possibly less wise than I was then.
The best laid plans of mice and me are a moveable feast it would seem; I wish I could keep up.