It's like this, see.
Maybe, when you're twenty-three and have never gotten pregnant, never kissed a guy just because you were drunk and he looked so freaking good in the light that intensified the beads of sweat on his forehead as he sang your favorite song in that littlest of stages, never sneaked out in the most ungodly of hours just to do something stupid like bury a dead body, you just begin to wonder what you're missing.
Maybe, when you're twenty-three and have come to terms with the fact that yes, you have a conscience, and yes, there may be permanence in that condition, you just begin to question whether it'd be wiser to be young and stupid or it'd be stupider to be young and pseudo-wise. Because you're twenty-three and the world doesn't care. There're ten million other people who are twenty-three and don't live under the rule of martial friggin' law.
When you're twenty-three and have never fallen in love (sure you've met boys who made your palms sweat and your heart thump, but never one who ran seasons in your chest), maybe the trick is to walk slowly towards and not to jump in. (Or is it the other way around?) When you're twenty-three and have never done anything crazy like wild unprotected sex, maybe that's actually a good idea. But then again, at this age maybe you just begin to realize that like that "This Is Water" speech by David Foster Wallace, the world can't teach you how to be water, can't teach you how to be fire, or how to be air. You can't be taught anything you aren't willing to learn by experience. So when you're twenty-three and trying to live properly, maybe the trick is to not live properly.
Twenty-three and not making sense.
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