Computers are the Swiss Army Knives of the urban soldier. Some of them even do fit in one's pocket now, but moreso in the sense that they fulfil every function that a young professional such as my self may require, save eating, sleeping and that other thing we all do.

I keep spasmodially saving this document in my old friend, TextPad. TextPad and I have spent many hours in our undramatic, master-slave relationship. Many hours of original feature writing, rehashing of extreme sports stories, ugly confessions and office chair realisations. Whatever gets me through the fact that I'm sitting in a chair staring at a photon tube.

I got up this morning and something was different. Just for a brief moment, I looked at my hands and remembered that I'm busy watching these hands grow old, wrinkly and eventually, they will die, along with the rest of this body. For a fraction of a second, I was alive, feeling my body. Then it all got swept away.

I have no major realisations. Just right now. I've gone through this all before. I cleared out all my music equipment and packed it away last night. When I read my journals, it's like a rapidly oscillating, moody description of someone who seeks the salve for his insecurity in emotional cold storage.

I repeat my routine. Shoes, scratch fungus-nads, shorts, go for a run. Bright sunny day, sometimes windy. Plough back up hill, catch breath and stretch. Go to work. Sit in chair reminding myself that I'm 'fulfilling my destiny as a musician.' What if I don't want to be a musician anymore? For real? I'm 26 in a few weeks. What if I've had enough and just let this all go? What if instead of unpacking my gear, I sell it all and find something else to do?

I could say, 'who knows' now, or I could say, 'I want this'. These are the decisions that make a man. I guess.