Too young to "grow up"
Today I realized that I'm too young to "grow up."
With all the emotional ups and downs, discoveries, and adventures of the last two years, I've gotten tired. Life has lost its bite, and in many ways, has waxed into autumnal resignation. Dreams that once seemed sacred ring hollow. Memories sear more than comfort. My energy flags.
Certain friendships have ripened, others have drifted into obscurity. Responsibility grows. Money and practical considerations about my future assume more time. My values and desires shift to those of my parents and grandparents--or the elder philosophers who preceded them all.
I want to settle down, plant some roots, marry someone who isn't exciting, just loving and stable, and resign to quiet walks in solitude and to evenings of reflection. I have no desire for passionate love or wide-spread travels, change or revolution. I simply want to sit and drink my tea in a quiet room with wind whispering outside among oak leaves.
Friday, Fr. John said, "You're a 50-year-old in a 20-year-old's body." I've heard the sentiment numerous times, ever since high school. Every character I've played on stage has gray hair. My parents say I'm too mature for my age. Br. Robert said I'm an old soul in a new body. None of my close friends are younger than I, with my best one about 15 years my senior.
I noticed the trend with detachment.
But I'm finally feeling the grind of time on my young psyche: a sense of humility and longing that I never felt before, a sense of profound resignation that replaces excitement. A dull solidity. A deeper kinship with older people, a distance from the younger. A distaste for action.
But I'm too young to resign. I'm only 20, with at least 30 years until I'm a "middle-aged" man. I'm hoping that the brittle beauty that shines more clearly in the world--especially in the scars that permeate it--and the deepening passion I've found for writing will enliven a life that seems ashen. I'm hoping that I'll meet someone to get me excited about living again, hopeful about living longer. But I feel like I have to be the one who pushes in the end.
In the meantime, I've enjoyed the benefits. I understand my parents and the sage wisdom from old friars and dead family. My smile feels weightier, my actions more deliberate. Music moves me like it never could before. My skin is thicker.
I don't feel like a hatchling anymore: I may not be out of the nest, but I feel the call of flight and the strength of wings ready to carry me into my own life.
I'm at a crossroads of some sort. I won't know the boarders or directions until many years down the road, long after the time passes to choose a different rout. I'll see a magic to this moment that escapes me now. All I can do is keep an open mind, a loving heart, and keep doing what I think is best. I don't think life requires much beyond that.
With all the emotional ups and downs, discoveries, and adventures of the last two years, I've gotten tired. Life has lost its bite, and in many ways, has waxed into autumnal resignation. Dreams that once seemed sacred ring hollow. Memories sear more than comfort. My energy flags.
Certain friendships have ripened, others have drifted into obscurity. Responsibility grows. Money and practical considerations about my future assume more time. My values and desires shift to those of my parents and grandparents--or the elder philosophers who preceded them all.
I want to settle down, plant some roots, marry someone who isn't exciting, just loving and stable, and resign to quiet walks in solitude and to evenings of reflection. I have no desire for passionate love or wide-spread travels, change or revolution. I simply want to sit and drink my tea in a quiet room with wind whispering outside among oak leaves.
Friday, Fr. John said, "You're a 50-year-old in a 20-year-old's body." I've heard the sentiment numerous times, ever since high school. Every character I've played on stage has gray hair. My parents say I'm too mature for my age. Br. Robert said I'm an old soul in a new body. None of my close friends are younger than I, with my best one about 15 years my senior.
I noticed the trend with detachment.
But I'm finally feeling the grind of time on my young psyche: a sense of humility and longing that I never felt before, a sense of profound resignation that replaces excitement. A dull solidity. A deeper kinship with older people, a distance from the younger. A distaste for action.
But I'm too young to resign. I'm only 20, with at least 30 years until I'm a "middle-aged" man. I'm hoping that the brittle beauty that shines more clearly in the world--especially in the scars that permeate it--and the deepening passion I've found for writing will enliven a life that seems ashen. I'm hoping that I'll meet someone to get me excited about living again, hopeful about living longer. But I feel like I have to be the one who pushes in the end.
In the meantime, I've enjoyed the benefits. I understand my parents and the sage wisdom from old friars and dead family. My smile feels weightier, my actions more deliberate. Music moves me like it never could before. My skin is thicker.
I don't feel like a hatchling anymore: I may not be out of the nest, but I feel the call of flight and the strength of wings ready to carry me into my own life.
I'm at a crossroads of some sort. I won't know the boarders or directions until many years down the road, long after the time passes to choose a different rout. I'll see a magic to this moment that escapes me now. All I can do is keep an open mind, a loving heart, and keep doing what I think is best. I don't think life requires much beyond that.