You have to grow old, before you can feel young again.
In less than an hour, I turn 25. And from what I can tell, going a quarter of a century is no difficult task, but going twice as long will be. I feel the aches of age now—but I’ve hardly dealt with the pains of maturity.
It’s hard to express what this coming year will, or should, mean. It’s impossible to fathom what the next revolution around the sun will bring…where I’ll be when I turn 26. Yet I know that I’m as close as ever to becoming what I’m meant to become, what I’ve worked to become, and I still have no answers to those questions of inevitability and fate.
When I decided to become a writer, just a couple of years ago, I’d no idea that I would actually become one. And looking back on the past six months, I can indubitably say that I haven’t grown as one. I’ve swum in circles, perpetually smaller circles, and now tread aimlessly, seaweed wrapping around my ankles and inching me closer to unmoving static nothingness.
But that’s not the way it should be. I should be racing, powering through the muck, breathing heavy and swallowing saline with every stroke. I should be kicking, coughing, sucking in air as if there is just one heave left before I’m pulled beneath the waves.
I may be just old enough to begin feeling young again. I could be just far enough upstream to right my course. Just close enough to feel the warmth of the surface; the heat emanating off the shore; the sultry smell of sand and rock and grass.
I am just old enough to remember why I jumped in this pool to begin with. And because of that, I am strong enough to establish myself as the persistent, unwavering swimmer I once was.
25 can be a very good thing, for me.
