Here I am, a twenty-something year old. I’m at the age that I assumed I would have found stability at. The age where I would know what I want to do, where I want to be. I would have an independent life and a puppy, living in a studio apartment overlooking an ancient city. Maybe Rome, or Rio De Janeiro. The possibilities would be endless.
Yet, as I type this, I realise how stupid I was at fifteen. Because I don’t know what exactly is my life now. I’m not entirely sure if I want to follow the path that I decided upon. There are things I would love to do, but they aren’t practical. I’m not as reckless as I would like to be to pack up my bags and move back to Africa, or Latin America, or even to a quintessential Spanish town. I don’t know if I’ll be able to ever sustain myself or my dreams, if I’ll be able to travel the world and find love at some point. I don’t have the courage to set out a guideline anymore. Or perhaps I have just grown to realise that life doesn’t exactly follow your whims and fancies.
So, at twenty, I am the kind of girl that manages to sneak into clubs and dances her heart out with her friends. I am also the kind to have empty, perhaps broken bottles next to my bed. With his memories running wild in my head, a reminder of the love I will never have. It penetrates deep into me, but there is nothing I can do. I cry myself to sleep, only to wake up the next day and make it to college on time. And then I smile, I whine, I argue about the things I feel most passionate about, knowing all too well that it will soon fade away.
As I walk out the gates every day, I realise that one day I’ll walk out and never look back. That one of these days I wouldn’t have to deal with the jackasses around anymore. That one day, soon from now, I won’t have to rush to the canteen for a noodle frankie. I won’t travel in that train anymore, and I won’t hug my friends every single day. I’ll be gone from the place I’ve spent years in, and the thought sends shivers down my spine. I get home, embracing its comfort.
What am I still even doing at home? Home at 4 pm, doing the countless assignments and studying for the test that doesn’t quite matter. Here I am, slave to the system and everything that the society expects me to do, and my rebellion fails time and again. This doesn’t even matter, I huff and throw spill ink all over the floor. But then, does anything? Does my quench for love matter, does my desire to be happy even matter? Alone in an awfully big apartment, I now feel more lost than ever.
And so, I am a twenty-year-old. Struggling to heal a broken heart, so far with no success. Desperately trying to untangle the thoughts that blur my vision. Fighting against some inner demon that lurks inside me, questioning every single moment that I choose to stay alive.
I will make it out alive, I am pretty sure. I just can’t promise my sanity.