On my 58th birthday, which is happening in a couple of weeks, I will begin a new documentary project.
It is going to be a countdown of sorts.
Twelve thousand days. Almost thirty-three years. That would take me to September 2059, just a couple of months short of my 91st birthday.
Will I live that long? I have absolutely no idea. None of us knows how much time we have left, and perhaps that's the point.
Lately, I've become increasingly conscious of my own mortality. Not in a particularly morbid way, although I suppose there is an element of that. More a growing awareness that time is passing, that I'm getting older and that there are still so many things I want to do, understand, experience and say.
I've also begun questioning how I spend that time.
Somewhere along the way, I've allowed technology, projects, obligations and the endless distractions of modern life to occupy far more of my attention than I ever intended. I've become extraordinarily good at organising my life and considerably less good at simply living it.
I miss reading books. Proper books. I miss taking photographs for the pleasure of photography. I miss sitting down to write without an agenda, without an audience in mind, and without worrying whether what I'm producing is worth publishing.
Most of all, I miss the freedom to follow my own curiosity.
So, the 12,000 Days Project is partly an attempt to reclaim some of that.
I want to write about my life. The ordinary days, the extraordinary moments, the things that make me happy, the things that frustrate me, and the questions I still haven't found answers to.
I want to explore my past, too. There are parts of my life I understand rather poorly, decisions I still question and experiences that have undoubtedly shaped the person I've become.
Some of those stories may find their way here. Others might remain private. I haven't decided, and perhaps I don't need to.
This isn't going to be a daily exercise in productivity or a desperate attempt to make every remaining minute count. I have enough self-imposed expectations already.
Nor is it a promise to publish something every day for the next thirty-three years.
It's simply a record of a life being lived, imperfectly, with curiosity, and hopefully with a little more awareness than before.
How it will work
Beginning on the 19th of November 2026, I'll start with 12,000 days on the clock.
Each day, that number will decrease by one. A simple reminder of the passage of time, rather than a prediction of how much time I have left.
The remaining-days counter will be a permanent feature of the project, quietly ticking away whether I publish anything or not.
Alongside the countdown, I'll keep a journal. Some entries might be lengthy reflections on life, memories or experiences. Others might be photographs, observations or just a few words about an otherwise ordinary day.
I might even return to pen and paper occasionally, something I've been thinking about more and more as I question my relationship with technology.
I won't promise to publish every day. I don't want this to become another obligation or something I feel compelled to maintain.
There are no targets, no milestones and no particular destination. Just a record of the days as they pass.
Perhaps I'll discover something about myself along the way. Perhaps I'll rediscover some of the things I've neglected. Perhaps, one day, someone I love will read these words and understand a little more about the person I was.
Or perhaps it'll simply be a collection of thoughts, photographs, memories and ordinary moments that might otherwise have disappeared.
I don't know where this project will lead. I don't know what I'll discover about myself, or whether anyone else will find any of it interesting.
But I do know that I want to write again. Properly. Honestly. In my own voice.
And I want to spend more time experiencing life rather than organising, documenting and worrying about it.
Twelve thousand days.
I don't know how many of them I'll get.
But this isn't about dying.
It's about living.