Every evening’s disappointment is the next morning’s hope. I’m Lee Marvin. Welcome to my birthday.

There is a dark planet of awesome size, lit by no sun. An invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans. It is so far away, so desolate, and so impossibly, terrifyingly dark. One day we will go there.

Imagine the feeling of the ground beneath your feet on that planet, the soft cold grit of sand that once was rock that once was mountains. You won’t be able to see the sand. You won’t be able to see anything except the faint glimmer of the stars. There is always light somewhere. Just not here.

What does it smell like on that planet, I wonder? The salt tang of invisible oceans. The bitter sap of the ancient forests. I don’t think it smells of rot. I don’t think it smells of fire or of food. I think it smells empty, like a home that you lived in for many years, but have cleaned out and repainted, and you’re standing in it for the last time, and it is once again a stranger to you. I think it smells like that.

I am Lee Marvin. Actor of some note. It is my 30th birthday today. Every day is my 30th birthday, and yet I do not age.

This morning, on my birthday, I had a vision. I was walking, and the ground became wet. Then the water rose up around my ankles but I kept walking. Around me were the trunks of mighty trees, hundreds of feet around. The water felt cool, but the air was warm, so it was nice to walk through. And still the water rose, and I was waist deep now. I didn’t know where it was I was going toward, or away from. There was a fierce bicker of birds, somewhere far above. The water roiled, but I was not afraid. I just walked, waist deep in that water. Perhaps I walked forever.

My morning routine is like so. I wake up at 5am. I know this because my digital clock tells me in stark red against black. I’ve had the same clock for decades. All of the labels have worn off the buttons. I wouldn’t know how to set an alarm, but I don’t need to. Whenever I wake up it’s 5 am. Maybe my waking causes time to happen.

I have the same breakfast every morning. I don’t mean I have the same kind of breakfast. I mean it’s the same food. I know because the apple has a bruise shaped like a witch's hat near the stem. It’s the same bruise, the same size, the same shape every morning. When I pour the cereal, no matter for how long or short, it’s the exact same amount of corn flakes. I’ve counted them, again and again. Even if I pour no cereal at all, if I refuse to touch the box, there is still the same number of corn flakes in the bowl. It’s the same breakfast, and I eat it again and again, to celebrate the morning of my 30th birthday.

We were not meant to last forever. There is no peace in eternity. What shapes all of this is the boundaries. The birth, the death. Even the pain in the knees. The forgotten wallet. You are bounded, and so within, you are boundless. Without boundaries, I have no shape. I have no pain in my knees and so I forget I have them. I forget my body. That’s all, I just want to remember my body.

There is a dark planet of awesome size, lit by no sun. Its orbit is wild. It serpentines through space. Even with the most powerful telescopes, we would not be able to find it. But at some point, we will all see it, clear and plain as our own faces, in the blue of the sky. We will look up, on a day where we had a dentist appointment, where we had to pick up the kids by four, where the basketball game was on down at the bar, and there will be a planet of awesome size, lit by no sun. An invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans. The planet will be so close that you will be able to see details on its midnight surface. Are those cities that you see upon it? Vast and cavernous cities. Empty windows and empty rooms. No one built those cities. But they are there.

I am Lee Marvin. I have always been Lee Marvin. It has always been my 30th birthday.

This afternoon, on my birthday, I had a vision. I was at a conference table, in a conference room, in a building full of rooms exactly like that one. A place of business, where money is not made but is procured from those who deserve it less. I wondered: if I searched those offices for all of my birthdays after, would I ever find an exit? But I did not search. I sat at the conference table. Across from me was an unsmiling man. His hands were folded in front of him on the table. I did not greet him, because I felt that we had already exchanged small talk and now it was time to get down to the meat of it. But I didn’t know what that meat was. I didn’t know what he wanted from me. Neither of us said anything, from either side of our conference table. The tinted window looked out over a parking lot full of identical silver sedans.

My afternoon routine is like so. I put on my hat and go into town. I do my shopping and say hello to the people I know and the people I don’t. There are still somehow people I don’t know, even after all this time, however much time it has been. They often wish me a happy birthday, and I say “thank you” but what I mean is “please don’t, please no more.” Sometimes there is a party, and I poke at the cake with the side of my fork. I go home with my groceries, and I put them in the fridge, throwing out the identical groceries I had bought the day before. Then I have an afternoon coffee out in the backyard, staring at my lawn which remains green and lush even though the heat is intense this time of year, even though I have never in my life watered it. The grass is like me. I spit a little coffee on the grass.

Imagine having no shape, no form. Imagine a clumsy endlessness. Imagine me. Picture me.

In an emergency, it is recommended that you look for the nearest exit. That’s all I’m doing here. Looking for the nearest exit.

There is a dark planet, lit by sun. An invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans. I feel that I walked there, once long ago. I know the bitter crunch of its lifeless soil. I know the ice fizz of the waves along its shores. I know the smooth glass of its mountainsides. The dark there is complete. I wish I could take you by the hand, and together, you and I, could step onto its surface. We could know it the way one knows a home. We could find warmth in its absolute chill. We could make light in its total darkness. But that won’t happen. Because when we visit that planet, we each must visit it alone. But we can take comfort in those who have gone before, in those who will come after. There is a dark planet, lit by no sun, and one day we will go there.

This evening, on my birthday, I had a vision. I was climbing a chimney of rock. The rock sat tight around my shoulders, there was hardly room for my body. By wedging myself outward, I was able to make myself stable, and then wiggle myself just a little bit higher, and a little bit higher after that. I knew that my climb would last the rest of my life, and that the rest of my life would last forever, and still I wiggled myself an inch at a time. Far above me was a dot of light, the pale orange of sunrise or sunset. It never changed. The sun was always setting, or else it was always rising, and anyway I was far beneath, wiggling my way up a chimney of rock. Far below, I could see cave water, absolutely clear and impossibly deep and brutally cold. If I wanted I could simply relax my body and fall through the rock into that cold and clean water. All I would need to do is relax for one second. But I didn’t. I kept climbing toward the sunrise or else the sunset.

My evening routine is like so. I listen to the radio to hear the news, and nod thoughtfully at what the world is up to when I’m not involved. I take off my socks. I like how my feet feel against the carpet in my living room. Sometimes I hear a voice from the living room wall. The voice sounds like me. “There must be more than this,” the me in the wall says to the me in the chair. “I wish that were so,” I say to the me in the wall. “Could you help me out of here? I think I’m stuck,” says the me in the wall, and I shake my head sadly. If I could have helped myself, I would have already. I don’t like to sleep, so I binge an old 90s sitcom like “Five In A Pit”, or “The Thin Man Commences”. I don’t fall asleep. I know I don’t. I count every hour until the next day, and yet still I find myself waking again in my bed and it’s my 30th birthday as it is always my 30th birthday.

If I am not given a boundary, I will have to create a boundary for myself. I will have to be the inventor of my own end.

Listen, against the window. Do you hear? The soft murmur of the weather outside?

[WEATHER: “Sicilian Crest” by the Mountain Goats]

I have lived a very long time. Longer perhaps than anyone. And yet there is still much I haven’t done.

I’ve never been to Poland or Bolivia or New Zealand or Svitz [RHYMES WITH “WITS”]. I’ve never been to North Carolina or North Dakota or North Florida or Germany. I’ve never seen a giraffe in person. Or a boar. Or a praying mantis or an eagle.

I’ve never been to space, and I’ve never been in a coal mine.

I’ve never tasted kale or kimchee or lamb or radicchio.

There are big things I’ve never done. I’ve never written a book, or recorded an album. I’ve never built a house, choosing the location and materials, laying the foundation and constructing the framework upon it, putting in insulation, installing drywall, getting permits from the city. I’ve never led an army over a mountain pass, saying to them “today we go down in history”. I’ve never gone down in history. I mean, most of us haven’t and most of us won’t, but me too, I guess.

I’ve never been to the dark part of the ocean floor, where the sun can’t reach through the sheer liquid mass and the strange creatures live whose beauty does not rely on our sense of beauty because their existence does not rely on our sense of existence. Where the volcanic vents pump heat into the blue black abyss. I’ve never been married although I have been divorced. I’ve never skydived, or even been in a plane. I don’t know what flying feels like. I imagine it feels a little like dreaming and a lot like waiting.

There are small things I’ve never done. I’ve never had a picnic. I’ve never made whole wheat pasta. I’ve never parallel parked or spent a few hours picking up litter from the side of a road. I’ve never pulled a weed and I’ve never bought a hat. I’ve always owned this hat. I don’t remember where I got it. I’ve never driven any car but a Dodge Durango. I’ve never seen a single movie except Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Not that new remake, but the original 1960s classic starring Frank Sinatra as every character. I can’t imagine any other movie being better, and so I’ve never bothered.

Exotic things I’ve never done. I’ve never time traveled, although I do get the brochures in the mail each week like everyone else. I’ve never danced in the ballet, although I’ve daydreamed of it many times. I’ve never printed counterfeit money nor ordered a hit on anyone nor otherwise committed a crime. I’ve never been bitten by a vampire or by a werewolf or by a child.

Simple things I’ve never done. I’ve never mailed a letter. I’ve never owned a dishwasher. I don’t know what a sauna feels like. I’ve never been in a hot tub. I’ve never kept a flower in a vase long after it was time to throw it away, until it is the brown memory of a flower that once was. I’ve never done pilates or yoga or crossfit. I’ve never taken a run, although I have always owned running shoes.

My life, like all lives, is more of a list of “I nevers” than “I haves”, because the world is bigger than we can reach, not even if we spend our entire lives reaching. We clear a little circle around ourselves. We sit in that circle. That is our life.

But it’s ok. I don’t have to do everything. I will leave an endless list of the not dones and the meant tos and the should haves, and that’s fine.

After all, past performance is not a predictor of future results.

After all, death is only the end if you think the story is about you.

After all. After everything. After it’s over. What then?

Good night, Night Vale Good night.