The End of the Age of No Titles (Maybe), or Untitled

I never much cared for my past, mostly when it was the present. I see a lot of people, they look back fondly on their past, full of nostalgia and other such bubbly emotions. People wish they were there.
When the past was the present, and I was who I was when it was back then, I always looked forward to the future. It was to be the golden times, the promised land of sorts. That helped me get through my days, way back when.
So, I’m turning twenty-one soon enough – less than a month’s time. I’m kind of disappointed in my once-future. I expected more from me. It’s like I hit eighteen and started coasting, almost. I shouldn’t coast, anymore. I’m just spinning proverbial wheels.
Not that twenty-one is the end of the future, but I feel like it should be somehow monumental, a crux point. Maybe I haven’t been coasting: instead developing in ways I hadn’t been before, while putting the other ways on hold. That’s probably the truth, but it seems impalpable, so harder to swallow.
I’m writing a long review of A Big Fish, so that’ll be up soon. Also, I think I may indulge in ranting about Donnie Darko. Rambling is fun, but it may be time to shift gears, again.
I like to write, but I don’t always like to write how I write, so I change how I write until it becomes dull, again. I don’t write anything much longer than short stories for good reason.
Stating an intent is counterproductive, typically.
Adios.