You think things will work out. You think things will be forever.
I think I was just proven otherwise.
It’s times like these that I’d love to be sitting in a café in Paris, smoking a cigarette and saying to myself, well done kid. Well done on growing up. You know, like some older gentleman will inevitably say in some New Wave French film while eyeing the young woman up and down. And reconciling the cynicism of that gentleman with the naiveté of the woman… these are two parts of me I’m finding tricky to mesh.
My life isn’t a fairytale, caught on old cameras and lived in a paradise. It’s really not. And it probably never will be. But you know what? That’s fine. It’s really quite fine. Because the rawness of humanity, the grittiness of misfortune and searing sensations of passion and joy – you won’t find these in fairytales. You won’t. Fairytales are idealised. My life isn’t. It’s young, it’s full of mistakes and awkward silences and embarrassments that I’d rather forget. But it’s mine.
And nothing lasts forever. I’ve learnt that now. I’ll get moments, I’ll get fleeting fancies, seconds of possibilities and wonderings and the ever present what if?
But that’s okay. It’s really okay. I’m twenty years old. I’m about to throw myself headfirst into my last year of university. I have a vague sort of plan as to what might happen afterwards. Key word being vague. Who ever lives their life out exactly as they plan it, after all?
I’ll tell you who.
Absolutely no one.