When you hit a certain age, say, somewhere in your 20s, you can’t really get away with putting aside goals for the future as much (‘I’ll be more equipped to handle this when I’m older/wiser/more mature/experienced/adjective of your choice’), because if anything, you’ve proven that with time you only depreciate, whereas other people your age are successful and accomplished…

And by you, of course, I mean me.

‘Armory.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did you?’
‘It was the twilight,’ he said wonderingly. ‘I didn’t feel as though I was speaking aloud. But I love you… or adore you… or worship you…’
‘There you go – running through your catalogue of emotions in five seconds.’
He smiled unwillingly.
‘Don’t make me out such a lightweight, Clara; you are depressing sometimes.’
‘You’re not a lightweight, of all things,’ she said intently, taking his arm and opening wide her eyes – he could see their kindliness in the fading dusk. ‘A lightweight is an eternal nay.’
‘There’s so much spring in the air – there’s so much lazy sweetness in your heart.’

This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald

‘[…] I’m slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires–’
‘You are not!’ She brought one little fist down onto the other. ‘You’re a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.’

This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald

They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the music that eddied out of the cafés. New faces flashed on and off like myriad lights, pale or rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by a weary excitement. Armory watched them in fascination. He was planning his life. He was going to live in New York and be known at every restaurant and café, wearing a dress suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping away the dull hours of the forenoon.

This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald