Damn. It does not come easy to me these days. Often enough, a quick mathematical calculation is required – and then I cringe at the numerical answer provided before me. Some days I accept it better, a number I know I can swiftly banish to the recycle bin of my mind, to be rehashed on another hopeless navel-gazing episode; other days, I feel like I am walking knowingly into infinite nothingness, to a place where time ultimately stops and never picks up again.
Growing old is not fun. There did not seem to be an in-between: when we were young and tired of our studies, we harboured hopes of getting our lives fast-forwarded; yet when we are saddled with the trials and worries of adult life, we would long for the relatively fun and carefree days of our youth.
No one dreams of being 25. Now, it makes me feel in limbo, neither here nor there. Yet when the next year comes around, it will feel like taking one gigantic step into the vast unknown and being tossed into a whole new category of its own.
I go to bed tonight listening to the unceasing pitter patter of raindrops on the roof, wondering if we can ever be ready for this.