At the age of 24.75,

Morning busWhen I was young, I wondered, a few times, at what I could possibly regret when I am an adult. Older people around me were always talking about regrets and what they didn’t do, that if they could turn back time they would have changed something.

When I was younger, I was brave and bold and lived in my own haughty world. I did what I like when I like it and nothing else. I had more friends and more smiles. I had a world of pages I couldn’t finish reading and a world I couldn’t wait to travel in. There were dreams to fulfil, days to write about, and endless things to look at. Each day was a renewal of what was not done yesterday – tomorrow will be better than before, that was my mantra.

These days, I am fighting against time and a pressing pressure of something inexplicable. Time is the one that tells me I am not doing enough, not achieving enough, living enough. Time is the second mother that nags me to be someone I am not, someone I will never be and still, Time does not understand the futility of her lectures – that my mind works slower than most, intricate than most, thinks more than most…perhaps. These days, I fight against the outside forces that tell me the ideal projector of life is to be able to afford material things that I don’t even need in the first place. That to be worthy of another’s attention is to wear clothes that scratches my skin and bags that are worth more than the balance of my bank account. Today’s world teaches me that to be happy is to be rich in its most superficial sense; my ledger of happiness is now controlled by what I have – which is inconsequential – and what I still do not have – which is of utmost importance.

Most times, I think very hard about expensive things. I wonder if they will make me happy – if that Chanel I do not even like in the first place will make me feel better. I have carried out experiments with all the variables needed and I came to the sick realisation that I feel even more empty after. There’s something missing – I can almost grasp the implications of this latent and unexpressed form. I am almost at the answer. So for now, I hold onto the simplest things that I have known since childhood. The turn of a page, the chords in a bar, the light swing of a golf stick, the laughter of my mother and aunt, the simplicity of my favourite breakfast (scrambled egg and sausages) – I think of them all and cling to the simpler past where knowledge was what I chased after. Of late, I have been chasing materials and the impotency of it all.

I want it to stop though. I want to start chasing my own happiness. I want to start turning pages with vigour again and start writing words that ring true with me.

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