In my thirties, I rarely let life get the better of me. I was—in my own estimation—in firm control. Nothing could touch me. I was fitter back then. Younger and fitter; I believed myself invincible. I rose above all earthly concerns. Trivialities, constraints, and laws were no match for my ability to bench press 180lbs, execute perfect pistols (one-legged squats to the laymen out there), and run savage wind sprints that’d make most people vomit out their entrails.

My worries were of the esoteric kind back then, like: how to become a successful artist. How to crack the creativity code. To that end, I drank five cups of coffee, carried around a leather-bound notebook à la Hemingway, and spent a fortune on a Montblanc pen in hopes of coating my thoughts in a thin veneer of credibility.