The musician me, who spends his life composing musical scores for non-paying films, honing his saxophone technique and taking the time to make a living of it.
The journalist me, who uproots himself as necessary, chasing everything in order to climb the journalistic ladder of any number of media organisations. Reaching the end of my life world-weary, alcoholic, obese and able to produce excellent dinner table conversation.
The public relations me, who meekly ekes out an existence in a government communications job, explaining policies until cynicism and disillusionment crushes me.
The politician me, who sets out to change things for the better, to ensure that governmental policies are founded on defensible research, fact and logic instead of the best-selling news hook or the easiest side of argument. Inevitably I emerge disappointed at the wasted years, possibly to become a journalist.
The English teacher me, who deviates from one of the above paths to teach. To go back to that institution that will forever be associated with dusty childhood, irrecoverable immaturity and a simple life.
The chef me, who decides that yes, he does really like pastries and yes, he will spend his life making delicious desserts. Buttery pastry lines the way to a jolly, early grave, even if at the moment of my death I suffocate on panic.
The doctor me, who made a choice late in high school that the pursuit of medicine was a path of such pure intention and integrity, that he would pursue it in spite of the fact that the sciences were not his strongest subject.
The pragmatic me, who scoffs at the idea of any of this, and instead forms himself as an entrepreneur, establishing his own public relations business, and looking up with surprise to find that thirty years have passed by his desk whilst his head has been buried in Gantt Charts and SWOT analyses.
The environmental advocate, who actively realises that an emissions intensive lifestyle is not natural, and is something that can be opted out of, and who proceeds to change his life with a small degree of neuroticism lest any argument about the future of the planet be derailed by secret plane trips or refrigerators or air conditioning.
There are so many of me that could come to pass.
How do I know which one is the right one? How can I hope to satisfy them all? When I die, will all these selves flash past me, sighing "well, you never knew, did you...I might've made you happier"?
And the relationships and friendships and me. The ones that slipped away, exploded with a bang or never realised full potential...what could they have been, and why do I think about them? The ones I was too scared to push - they possibly are the greatest thoughts. What could have existed between us, if I'd decided to keep dancing, or ring you, or chosen to stay at the New Year's Eve party for longer? If I'd decided to through every caution away and follow my gut?
It was so easy then, just a step away, and will probably never arise so freely again. And no organisation can bring back the magical malleability of those spontaneous moments. So instead I wallow in hypotheticals, which can be easily committed to and idolised.
And so I'll sleep on it.
Sleep and wake up tomorrow to find this mood has deserted me. I can no longer keenly feel the absence of potential life experiences, but instead am dragged into the minutiae of my life.
Night.
