The tangling 21

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One summer evening three decades ago I wrote a letter to the dreams I had when I was eighteen years old,guess what my dear reader’s time has taken a wing, and here I am sitting in my dimly lit room where the only warm light is coming from the fairy light that hangs on the wall of my room ,my twenty one year self taking a sip of tea and in a prompt to write a letter to herself, two days after her b’day, with no expectations and unfiltered honesty.

As the clock beside my bed struck 12, I was having hard time grasping the fact that I am no longer a silly teenager, though in my heart I solemnly believe I will always be up to something crazy, something that I was strictly advised not to do.

Keeping in my mind and heart and my overfed liver the chunks of lunacy, let’s proceed to write an essay where I don’t know will have an ending or not, but life is a continuous journey and my laptop has limited battery. My humor still pretty much sucks.(Blame thee only sinner,autocorrect)

I had the infelicitous privilege of reading my old letter that I have written in this very platform three years ago on my birthday.If not paradoxically, yet precisely I couldn’t relate to this person, first of all her grammar sucks(autocorrect, in my defense) or is it still, that only almighty and dead Bacon can point out.

In that age, you are practically imperceptive to the future you look forward to, though I was certain that I wanted to study literature, but what field I will work in through it, was nothing but a foggy canvas, so by not comprehending the obscure future I splashed colors from what I saw in the internet, read in the mythical fantasies and it was a bartered dream If I have to confess, not my own but something I admired from afar, a utopia that was not of my own fabrication.

Then again, who am I criticizing, this was me too, a little less mature but yeah I adore and completely love her too, not you have to be this epitome of grace and maturity all the time, don’t let that child, the dreamer and the hustler within you die. As long you are little imperfect, so long you are on a voyage, in my previous letter I’ve written I am unable to perceive my true destination. Indeed, my dear Neha you are still a traveler, and my only wish that you remain a traveler, so that you keep discovering homes in quaint lands and finding solace in the face of an unknown, rather than settling in ‘One true destination’ all your life, and then losing your mind over perfecting that mold.

‘I wanna settle in London or Paris’, I think many of you can relate to this dream that I had, or should I say the desire, let me speak my hear out, I didn’t have any idea how I would fetch for myself there, the idea of living with one croissant seems dreadful, but oh maybe Neha thought amore will be her appetite, oh my dear, so romantic.

In my friendships too, I was the girl perennially looking for everything to last longer than they were supposed too, cause I grew up seeing my brother had this group of five friend’s since pre-school, once again we are human drunk on the idea of eternity, we don’t even know that guy who promises you to stay by your side ‘always’ will one morning wake up and find himself that his love was a mirage, a phantom. Holding onto promises will only dig your wounds deeper.

I am the one who barely writes about the people I love the most, cause they are mine to keep, but turning 21 has made me decipher that your friendship can have the profundity of a sea, yet they might not live close to you or you don’t get to meet each other everyday, love doesn’t depend on the distance, as two of my best friends is someone I don’t get to meet everyday, but we know in our heart in sickness and in health, in tears and giggles, in distance and in anger, our hearts are never far from one another(that’s exactly seems like a dialogue from a rom-com, by the gothic novels you read till now,romance is still alive?)

Kind, education has humbled me, and also some temporary people’s, maybe everything that occurs in our life has a meaning and honestly we are flock of feather on the hand of fate.

Cheers to being shamelessly old, which apparently is 21.