Today, I realized just how old I really am, and it terrified me. I have never felt like an adult, I mean an actual adult. I’ve felt adult-ish, but I’ve never felt committed to the idea of being an adult. But today, when I looked in the mirror, I realized that that’s what I was, that it’s what I am. I look at the freshmen walking in our halls, and they all look so young. I remember being a freshman, and looking at the seniors and thinking, “They look so old.” That’s how I must look to them...old, like an adult.
I suppose everyone has this moment, when they realize they have passed from the land of the child to that of the adult, but does it usually come this early? I’m only 18. I had always thought that if you continued doing the things that have always made you happy, you could always retain a bit of child in you. But as I look through my room, and through myself, I find that all the things I enjoy doing, all the movies I like, all the books I read, all the things I say and think, and believe, they’re all so adult, and I don’t know when the fuck this happened, or how I could ever let it happen, but I feel as though I’ve lost those very things I thought I never could. And I have no idea what to do now.
Even this blog, this very post, in fact, ages me. But these are the things I’ve made my home in the past years. It’s not a real a home though. It’s one built on the idea that the more you read, the more you learn, the more you feel, the more interesting you’ll become. Fuck that. In all reality, the only thing that happens is you become enlightened enough to realize that interesting and creative don’t mean shit. Enlightenment condemns you.
I don’t want beliefs. I don’t want literature. I don’t want knowledge. I don’t want to be an adult.
peace.
