I’ve suddenly realized that I’m too young for all this.
Sitting, studying, using big words, engaging in philosophical discussions, asking unanswerable questions. When did I become so old?
Often, when I accidentally stumble upon my younger self (whether in photographs or old diaries, it varies), a strange feeling comes over me. I cannot recall when I stopped being myself, or when I became myself, or if I ever had a delineated self.
I remember playing with dolls, and suddenly not knowing what to talk about with other girls, because suddenly, I wanted to read.
Today, I run home and feed on neuroscience documentaries, question life, but all in all, wish to take off my shoes and sit in the middle of the road, like any child would, before the biting of the wisdom fruit.
Indeed. I miss not knowing right from wrong. The purest form of my existence, perhaps. Everything was new. Novelty was the currency of my daily experiences.
Now, I sit in front of crumbled notes, or (desperate!) attempts at absorbing as much information as I can, all in pursuit of a Politics degree. Heck, who envisioned me graduating with a paper that smelt like Politics?
For I’d like to sit with the artist that sketched my future. There are so many questions about my past, which seems increasingly far-fetched, when compared to my present self.
I am various people. I have always been various people. And I’m not sure if growing up is helping.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to reach 30 and look at my 20-year-old self with satisfaction.
In any case, so long as I don’t look back in awe, wondering, what happened to that child?