2013, for all intents and purposes, has easily become the most defining year of my life. With good timing, too, since in less than a year’s time, I’ll be twenty years old. It definitely helps that I don’t feel the need to go around most days like a little girl donning her mom’s dresses and cosmetics just to feel the least semblance of being an adult. Putting things in perspective, I never really felt much like one, either. It’s just that now more than ever, I feel like I am outgrowing most of the beliefs I have stubbornly clung to for the last few years.
Surprisingly, shedding old gear, I am anything but dazed and confused. I have worn the naive smirk on my face for years, boasting to everyone I meet that being passionately skeptical about all things that lay claim to my attention is actually ten times better than certainty, and have warmed up to the identity (or the lack thereof) so much that I’ve never really allowed myself to go beyond the surface value of everything and everyone I meet. There is this sudden desire to truly get to know strange places and even stranger people minus the disregard that usually follows shortly after, a greater value of and for insight and things, a yearning for something genuine, an insistence on significance. All else pursued solely for the thrill of the chase — what for? What now?
I suppose it — whatever it is — truly comes with age. Feeling like my body isn’t being hurled into the unknown at warp speed is extremely liberating. This is not to say that I’ve grown (c)old and cynical, I am still ever the deluded optimist, eternally a staunch believer of possibilities. Perhaps I have really just grown wary, although not regretful, and have finally come to terms with the fact that a shift in priorities is what I really need at this point.
Maybe I missed a memo of some sort, but due to the recent turn of events, I’ve come to conclusion that I’m at my best when alone. I am so self-absorbed that anyone who threatens this sense of freedom and balance gets showered with unsolicited throngs of affection, and unless I find someone in the near future with the same value for the same things who’ll inspire the same or a heightened level of productivity, sweeter than my solitude, to borrow from Shire, I’m truly better off by my lonesome, minus all the negative connotations — seeing as it is that aside from this new view on attachments being directly correlated to timing and self-sufficiency, I’ve come to terms as of late and/or was even more assured of the things that truly matter to me.
There is so much to be done, places to be seen, books to be read, stories to be written. It doesn’t make sense to jeopardize all that in favor of a whirlwind infatuation that fades almost as soon as you breathe life into it — you should not be even breathing life into it, after all, it should come about by itself, as a testament to all wonderful things that thrive on their own without the need for a doting support system.
There is a better time for all this, indeed, with only pervading certainty to mark its arrival.