It is scary. I can feel butterflies in my stomach just thinking about it. I fear growing old. I know what people say that you don’t grow old but grow wiser. And I understand what they are trying to explain here. But I feel like as near as I’m getting to grow old each year, I am actually cherishing my crazy days of the past.
The fantasies that I used to live in. Or the stories that I imagined for myself. The crazy me who was obsessed with Robert Pattinson. It’s like as far as I’m leaving all those years, I’m suddenly wishing for there return back to me. The return of that time.
I cannot help but think about all those things or moments that I wish were rewind. I cannot help but think what if I documented my life a little earlier, what if I stayed consistent in my daily diary writing. I then would have restored so many more memories that I now have forgotten. This makes me feel so helpless and an underachiever. This makes me want to do things the right way. But then there is also this fear of knowing that this ain’t possible.
The time once gone can never return. Maybe that’s why I love reading about time travel because I try to rectify the things. If only in imagination. If only for someone else.
I sometimes and look all those younger than me and think how I was once like them. I have been through this phase. And how I understood so much more than them and so less than so many others.
And in these 21 years of my life, I understood that I’m different from the majority and I have a love and hate relationship with that thought.
I am afraid of time. I’m afraid that it is running. I’m afraid that it can never be stopped until it stop by itself.
Turning older every passing year reminds me how year by year, a year of my life is eliminating. And this fear is holding a grip so tightly around me that, we are running out of time.
I’m turning 22, today and suddenly feels like everything is changing and nothing is.