Every day I open Instagram and look at all the people I wish I could be. As a teenager, I had the same habit – with the o
ne difference being that back then, I honestly believed that someday I’ll be just like the pretty girls who always have shiny hair and good lighting. Then I’ll finally be enough.
As I write this, I am freshly 23,
but beyond that, I’m not freshly anything. Having collected two academic degrees, I have situated myself at the base of the Sisyphian hill of corporate life. Unfortunately, my hair didn’t magically get shiny, and I can’t choreograph the lighting around me at all times. Neither did I become enough.
Today I struggle to put language to a strange tug that has cut deep, unnoticed. As I gaze down the barrel of my mid-twenties and the rest of my adult life, several questions stare blankly back. Some were from sleepless nights, some from anxiety-ridden bus rides, and some I thought I answered but were never really satisfied.
What is the best way out of an uncomfortable conversation? To concede? To stifle any protest into a deep breath? To beg, with eyes threatening to surrender, that they leave you alone?
Does talking about something you care about hurt more than help? Am I showing my cards too soon? Am I baring my vulnerabilities to the wrong room?
How much do you have to lose to not want any more?
Why do I find people like me unlikeable? Is it because we’re too similar – or because, in reality, I’m not nice, interesting, or exciting?
How unlikeable am I? On a scale of Anne Elliot to Holden Caulfield?
How do you apologise to someone when they think they don’t need it? Look, I know I screwed up; please let me make it up to you. How? I don’t know. Can I buy you a drink? Does that help things?
Do my small nails make me ugly? What do I do to make them prettier?
How many girls who tell me my cheek acne is cute are lying? Are they trying to make me feel better?
What is the need to get out of bed in the morning? Is there something beyond the cake in the fridge or the books on the shelves?
Am I drifting on aimlessly, or am I moving towards something? Is there an invisible string? And if so, where is it taking me?
Is it normal to be drifting? Am I drifting, or am I drowning?
What’s this voice telling me I’m not pretty and I’m not smart? And who’s this other voice saying entirely the opposite? Do they know each other? Why am I moderating a debate between voices who don’t listen to each other?
Do found families exist? Where can they be found? What if they find someone else?
How sincere is a love that isn’t love but a thinly veiled clinging to comfort and company?
Will any of our dreams come true? What if all my dreams are fantasies, and their realisations are closer to nightmares?
How much do you work for your future, and how long do you have to keep doing it?
Do you ever get to fit back into those jeans? And do you ever get comfortable in that top again? What do you do with your favourite clothes that now make you feel miserable?
Does denying a feeling only fan the flame? Similarly, if you accept you’ve fallen, can you get back up with dignity?
How much of love is pure hate? And how much of caring for someone else is self-preservation?
Does it get easier to watch your heroes fall from grace? Am I signing up to fall just by trying to climb?
Are castor oil, crunches, and crypto the truth? Where’s the cancel culture for these guys?
Will I be a critic forever? Does anyone have a love for the mundane in themselves? Will we love the sweet monotony if it hums in every beat of our hearts?
When do you start feeling like a grown-up?
コメント