I’m not yet 24, and I’m getting all stupidly emotional. This is crazy talk, I know that. Shouldn’t this be some 42’s dilemma, for the love of God? I blame Austen and Dickens and my own twisted mind and life-as-it-has-panned-out, but blame all I will, this dreaded sentimentality will not Just. Go. Away.
Someone recently reminded me of that old saying, An idle mind is the devil’s workshop, and I think I couldn’t have chanced upon a more ironic state. My mind, truly, is far from idle. My mind, wretchedly, is so damn drenched with internalizations, I am my own damn devil.
Those internalizations are, in part, of recalling the past, and wanting, more than anything, to go back there and stay there, what price I may pay. Who the hell in their right mind dreams of times past in their twenties? Me, apparently.
I want what I had before, but I am the only one. When talking to those very ones from before, I have only gotten a unanimous there is no going back deal with it, and my heart sinks, knowing that even if I question the blind acceptance of the way the world works and refuse to swallow the pill of getting caught bogged down in the everyday, I am the only one. And I know I can never have the past again.
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