One day you’re twenty one and realise that idealism is a fugitive just like ambition. I’ve thankfully been coddled with sufficient privilege to never have seen up close the ugly pressure of working out of necessity, and perhaps that’s why the drive to do something and prove myself was incessantly kicking inside me. Yet the question plagues me -if I’m already so familiar with the truth as an outsider that success is clamshell emptiness, do I want to achieve it? Time and again since childhood I’ve been the kid that adults like to pin expectations on. ‘Has potential’, ‘can do better, just needs motivation’, blah blah -all of it correct undoubtedly, but also at the end of the day utterly powerless in front of my gaping anxious entrance to the world of uncertainty.
Soon to be wedded brides and already married women with their beautiful faces and engagement rings talk. And they talk so rapidly, and talk a lot — like, almost as much as literary theorists and we all know that those guys never shut up. This bitter, resentful urge to get out leaves you muddled and at this age I guess you just simply demand to know what one is supposed to count on more: an astrological promise or a psychological warning?
The latter, personally, has helped me more. I don’t remember the last time I had a nightmare and that is huge, considering at one point I had resigned to accept them as an exciting part of my life.