Existential crisis.
I am about to turn 24 in less than fifteen days. Twenty-fucking-four. Usually this is when the countdown begins in my head (actually it begins on about 8th of May and I acknowledge it in my head around 8th of June and publicly around 10-15 days before 8th of July, depending on how busy the lives of people around me are at the moment). Twenty four is no mean number. I stopped keeping count post 21, and so all forms filled by me were invariably aged 21 or 22. And now, holy shit, here I am, about to hit my own personal quarter of a century. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.
I have all these outlandish dreams where I travel and write and work but quite honestly what am I really doing? Eating, sleeping and shopping. Then you will also find me whining about how I don't eat what I wanted to, or I don't get enough sleep or don't have quite enough of Zara heels or Armani perfumes. I write two sentences a day and call myself a writer. I work out for ten minutes and grow tired. I roam about the city in an air-conditioned car, the fuel of which is paid for by my parents, and take pride in the fact that I'm independent.
It's disgusting.
It's appalling that this doesn't seem to trouble people around me - people who have joined their family business and take Europe/World-tours on their parents' money without the zeal to work for themselves. We as a generation don't earn our breaks or vacations, we are born into them - some more than others; and thanks to social media even the few of us left who can boast of a spine end up feeling underprivileged in comparison.
I'm turning twenty-four and I don't even have twenty-four friends to call my own. As I left Philippines, I laughed in its face because I was going home - to my city, to my people. In less than two months I was told and retold just how wrong that notion was but I'm stubborn you see. I was relentless in my love for my people, even as they slowly but surely stabbed me in the back. I tried to tell myself it was situation-specific and removed myself from those situations, and yet, here I am, no situation, same dagger. It doesn't hurt as much ofcourse, because of all the already present holes in my body but I find myself furious that it hurts at all.
I'm furious that it hurts me when people behave in a manner contrary to how I believed they would. I'm turning twenty-four and I am still as naive and whiney as I was earlier. What is changing except the year on the calendar, tell me oh lord? I'm still a dependent, demanding, student for crying out loud!
For the first time ever, I don't want the dates to change, I need more time, I'm not prepared. I haven't accomplished anything and I need more time before I hit this milestone. I need more time before over-concerned aunties and uncles start bugging me about getting married and my ever-empty uterus. I need more time!
As an afterthought, maybe all I need is a cold glass of wine, life does seem better with a wine glass in my hand. But oh wait, I'm a girl. I'm not "allowed" even that privilege. For you see, log kya kahenge?
I am about to turn 24 in less than fifteen days. Twenty-fucking-four. Usually this is when the countdown begins in my head (actually it begins on about 8th of May and I acknowledge it in my head around 8th of June and publicly around 10-15 days before 8th of July, depending on how busy the lives of people around me are at the moment). Twenty four is no mean number. I stopped keeping count post 21, and so all forms filled by me were invariably aged 21 or 22. And now, holy shit, here I am, about to hit my own personal quarter of a century. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.
I have all these outlandish dreams where I travel and write and work but quite honestly what am I really doing? Eating, sleeping and shopping. Then you will also find me whining about how I don't eat what I wanted to, or I don't get enough sleep or don't have quite enough of Zara heels or Armani perfumes. I write two sentences a day and call myself a writer. I work out for ten minutes and grow tired. I roam about the city in an air-conditioned car, the fuel of which is paid for by my parents, and take pride in the fact that I'm independent.
It's disgusting.
It's appalling that this doesn't seem to trouble people around me - people who have joined their family business and take Europe/World-tours on their parents' money without the zeal to work for themselves. We as a generation don't earn our breaks or vacations, we are born into them - some more than others; and thanks to social media even the few of us left who can boast of a spine end up feeling underprivileged in comparison.
I'm turning twenty-four and I don't even have twenty-four friends to call my own. As I left Philippines, I laughed in its face because I was going home - to my city, to my people. In less than two months I was told and retold just how wrong that notion was but I'm stubborn you see. I was relentless in my love for my people, even as they slowly but surely stabbed me in the back. I tried to tell myself it was situation-specific and removed myself from those situations, and yet, here I am, no situation, same dagger. It doesn't hurt as much ofcourse, because of all the already present holes in my body but I find myself furious that it hurts at all.
I'm furious that it hurts me when people behave in a manner contrary to how I believed they would. I'm turning twenty-four and I am still as naive and whiney as I was earlier. What is changing except the year on the calendar, tell me oh lord? I'm still a dependent, demanding, student for crying out loud!
For the first time ever, I don't want the dates to change, I need more time, I'm not prepared. I haven't accomplished anything and I need more time before I hit this milestone. I need more time before over-concerned aunties and uncles start bugging me about getting married and my ever-empty uterus. I need more time!
As an afterthought, maybe all I need is a cold glass of wine, life does seem better with a wine glass in my hand. But oh wait, I'm a girl. I'm not "allowed" even that privilege. For you see, log kya kahenge?
