Onward, and to the Stars

As I embrace the idea of looking to the future, and of making sense of what is to come, I find myself less anxious than I might’ve previously. Lack of anxiety, of course, may not necessarily mean lack of fear itself, but I do believe I am more at ease. And for that, I am grateful. I don’t know where this newfound peace is coming from, and how to hone it holistically and optimize in the way that I probably should. I suspect optimism for the future is stemming from an exhaustion with my preceding obsession with the past, or perhaps, just a clear understanding of the need to release it.

Regardless, after a long time, I am thinking about tomorrow. I am thinking about the weeks to come, about what will become of everything. I am more conscious of my relationships with people, and will attempt to be more charismatic and attentive in the way I interact with them (I think, now, that they deserve this, and that I have been wrong to remain distant and cold for the sake of my own convenience). I don’t know whether I can become less selfish, for while in theory it seems to be a brilliantly simple and becoming manner of living, I find it difficult to practice the art of denying my own desires. Still, I’ll try to work on that. Hedonism, in all of the luxuries it provides, is not something I’m sure I want my legacy (should there be one) to be associated with.

There is a lot I want to do with whatever time I may have left. I know how irritatingly clich√© that sounds, and I know how many people who’ve made the very same claim have done little with their actions to support it. Even still, I felt the need to say it, because I feel it, and at this point in my life I am finding that feeling something is often the most apt and apparent cue we ever get to say it; I may be wrong. I feel I’ve wasted an insurmountable amount of valuable time. And I don’t mean to say this to evoke a feeling of regret or depression, but of ambition and determination, to make sure I don’t continue to mistake the time I am given as some sort of prison sentence. Time was not the shackle, my perspective was; time is a privilege, one I had been ignorantly wasting.

I hope that this final push into utter adulthood, turning twenty, means I will begin to transform (as I would very much like to) from a girl of thought and grotesque obsession, into a woman of action and eloquence. I want to think less, and do more. I want to plan less, and see more. I want to be absolutely present in every moment granted to me. The time, as I now know, is now.

I have found that the secret of letting go of my obsession with the past, of allowing myself to come face to face with the idea of fashioning my future in cognizance of its significance to me, was to understand that the future is not some distant, intangible phenomenon, it is now. Someday is here, and it is time to make of it what I will.    

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Illusory Melancholy 

She told me that she was tired 

That she didn’t have enough energy left

To fall out of love

That everything around her seemed to be happening quickly and obscurely, while she remained frozen 

Unable to move, unable to feel 

Numb 

She thought that this feeling, this uncertainty about the choice between waiting any longer and finally moving on

That this must be the first step to some sort of closure 

She told me that it was different than how she imagined it would be

That it was somehow more painful than relieving