Of all the things running through my little head, I knew it was time to write. Journaling would’ve been the more ideal choice at this given time but my wrist situations makes typing long-form easier than writing.
I would like to think on how I’ve spent the past few days and weeks in deep self-discovery, self-exploration that may have provided the stepping stones towards self-actualisation, I don’t know. Everything I seem to read, listen to, have been told recently or just even see, makes me feel, a lot, of emotion.
And I’m not that emotional type.
I do cry yes, in abundance. Cry for everything under the God-forsaken sun. But leaving behind the physical aspect of crying too frequently for my liking, I am not that emotional. I was sentimental, but no longer.
But then, as my friend told me the other day, maybe we feel as much because we are writers.
But am I actually a writer?
I ask myself this constantly because I really do not write as much as I did or as much as I would like to.
Even if there are so many things out there that I would love to write about, I read a lot on similar things and then I realise that I would never be half the writer of those reads. Which then makes me wonder, who would read a/this shitty piece of writing? I know that I surely wouldn’t and for a confused-writer, I do judge a lot of writing. Because we all love judging people who are not us.
But coming back to being emotional on things, maybe part of doing the sort of work I do in the name of being a “writer” is part feeling these things you do. Or it might be hormones. Or the twenties. It’s hard to say.
I genuinely feel that people my age or around my age are more confused than we have ever been. I look at older-adults who were doing wonderful things at our age: reaching great heights in their career, getting married, making babies – of course there are other wonderful things, I was just using the stereotype and am not the kind that ranks making babies > career goals in the list of achievements.
But then what are we doing at our age? Can we even afford the things with what we earn?
And how much do we earn?
Or rather how much of our earnings would we ever term “enough”?
[also please read this. I had to go through forty minutes of search histories and Twitter feeds to relocate this one]
Are we living our lives the wrong way? Or is this the City Girl speaking? For all I know, Google will not offer the answers I am looking for and even if it does, it would most likely be written by a fellow 20-something city girl like myself.
Also, before you point out, quite rightly, I do not “live” in the “city”, but that’s not what we are addressing here.
Or maybe kids our age have too much going on. We take on too many things than we can handle because there is a constant strive for achievement. Because we read on how cooler kids were doing things in their early twenties and here we are closing in on the latter half of the third decade and yet are to do anything remotely cool.
Or maybe this is just me talking along with the rest of my insecurities.