I think I finally understand why so many works of fiction take place between the ages of 13 to 30. Because growing up is miraculous and beautiful, but it sucks. God, it sucks so much. I’m turning 25 this year and I thought I would have more things figured out by now, but surprise surprise, I don’t.
Most days, I just feel lost. The kind of lost where you watch coming-of-age movies until 3 in the morning, staring blearily at actors who are way too old to be playing teenagers, while waiting for an epiphany to strike. I’ll save you the time: Some days I stay up and write something great, some days I don’t.
My brain tells me that I’m not the first person in the world waiting for something to change. It feels ugly to admit that I kind of wish I was the only person going through this. There is a profound loneliness that comes with realising that you’re not the first broken soul in existence. Knowing that others have gone and overcome this feeling, it’s like drowning in a sea of strangers.
Maybe I read too many post-apocalyptic books when I was a teenager, because there’s a part of me that longs to be the next Katniss or Tris. At the very least, I’d have this great destiny to chase and all these people counting on me. You know, a good ol’ fate of the world hangs in the balance shtick.
But real life isn’t so kind. Here, people need to find things to live for.