Edging towards thirty has been something of a turning point, and I find myself drifting through the intersections of thoughts rather than cutting corners. My life has been one of examination (the unexamined rice is, after all, not worth Instagramming,) but to be honest I’m tired of analysis. To simplify humanity into mere cause and effect reduces our meaning, and I no longer care why a person is the way that they are. I only want to love them for it. A death to this gallows humor and finally choosing a side between optimism and nihilism. I’ve strived for education, for wisdom, to be seen as an authority and taken quite seriously. And now as I stare down from the crisp and dizzying heights, a cold and bitter envy grips my lungs. Now I wish to shed maturity and be a child again, to laugh because of what is funny and not politeness. To listen because it brings joy to others in being heard. To understand, not by cause and effect, but from empathy.
But it’s as Anais Nin said, “Writers live two lives. There is the living then the writing, the delayed reaction, the second tasting.”
Maybe this corner will turn into my own after taste of living rightly.