This semester of school is a particular salad bowl of Friday nights in school, meeting the best people too late, thankless work, overcoming, realising, discovering, learning, and defining. It’s odd, really.
A lot of things have changed in the past year and I’ve changed together with it. In all my life (granted, not a very long one), I’ve always thought I am this one person and I barely ever change. I want 2 kids; I’ve always wanted 2. I want to write and I have wanted to write since I was 15. There are certain things that I’ve always believed in: that you should strive to make your passion your career or your career your passion, that no matter what family will always be your warmest circumference, and that nothing about you matters except the difference that you make.
I guess the general framework is still there. The broad strokes. But I have changed. And much like typical plot points in a well-constructed series, these changes have both origins and effects. A lot of this year is just me trying to figure out who I am again, and that’s a really strange process. A lot of this also comes as a result of final-college-year reflections, of us trying to answer the questions of what we do by first figuring out who we are. But if we’re always changing, always becoming, then how do we ever know who we are (at the risk of sounding like a 14 year-old trying to sound philosophical)?
At my birthday celebration with my exchange friends this year, we spent half the gathering talking about the future and jobs and school and work that we continually depressed ourselves. It was in such stark contrast to the light-heartedness when we were in the states. What a difference a year makes. But, of course, we’re already 22. We shouldn’t drag our existence into prolonged adolescence. It is time to grow up, isn’t it.
“It’s the oldest story in the world. One day, you’re 17 and playing for someday, and then quietly and without you really noticing, someday is today, and then someday is yesterday, and this is your life.”