No, this never happened. I was gone.
Wrong: I was here, reaching for a white preserver. They pulled me out of a life, they must have, though nothing about that life would assemble. I was crushed under the weight of things or falling through their total absence.
I realized that my former desire had been more exacting than the requirements of the poet, the actress, and the great decorative artist who had staged the production, and that the magic surrounding a line as it was delivered, the shifting gestures perpetually transforming into others, the successive tableaux were the fleeting result, the momentary objective, the mobile masterpiece which the art of theater meant itself to be, and which the attentiveness of an overcaptivated spectator would destroy by trying to hold it in a fixed image.
Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way
Hard to tolerate Adulting or any project that deeply reckons with the idea of “becoming an adult.” There are two steps to becoming an adult: 1. Recognize your responsibilities toward yourself. 2. Recognize your responsibilities toward others. Poof, you are no longer a mouth that wants. Everything else is just decoration.