Velvet couches, Mark Knopfler, and Wireless Internet

I'm sitting a coffeehouse, force-writing myself. I've begun blogs all week, only to delete them seconds later, frustrated. I've written about how my Texan-musician father left my mom and me when I was two after he'd finally spent all of her money on opening dive bars and fast women. I've written about how my first memory was running away from home (also age two) in only a diaper and being brought back by neighbor, who found me toddling along a highway to parts unknown, before my parents even knew I was missing. I've written about my heroic (though tough) step-father whisking me off to a German village to live out my teen years as a child of the military. I've written about the only time I ever cried in the military, when I watched planes come back without the bombs they left with. I've written about living in Iceland, where the sun sets only to rise again a few minutes later in a three-month long day. I've written about living in Athens, Georgia, just about the coolest college town in the universe. And I've written about moving to the Atlanta suburbs and becoming a "responsible adult." And I've written about how I absolutely can't sleep at night until I close my eyes and imagine that I'm in a hammock on a Mexican beach with a margarita buzz and the salty air rocking me to sleep. But none of that seemed compelling...it's a life I've already lived. What I wanted to write about was what I haven't yet done, what I haven't yet experienced. What do you do when you're terrified that the best living that you've ever done is only in your past? It's excruciating.