Reading through a year’s worth of penned journal entries, I realized that I dread turning 21 as much as i did, turning 20. Here is an excerpt on the entry that concludes the birthday:
“Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked.” Yet there is still so much to be vulnerable, inadequate and insecure of, comparable to the volumous jumbled labyrinth of thoughts. Perhaps a year’s worth of wisdom would guide me to the light: but in the ways less of a creeper, more of a sunflower.
Of the many writers who have shared their stories it seems like my own one is a compilation of pages picked up from the scattered tales lost and found, along with the earth and leaves and wind and dirt from the places I’ve set foot on. The feelings that need to be matched to every detail of life is still a confusing work-in-progress: like the jigsaw pieces of a broken heart being put together, as if waiting to unravel new perspectives upon completion.
In all honesty, for the joys and woes of turning 21, i guess this last quote aptly sums up the overwhelming-ness of life and all the emotions it could possibly contain – that, “I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.”