Quarter Life and Counting

This is cheaper than therapy.

On panicking

dearcoquette:

I am 25 years old, and I live a very “day-to-day” life style. I have absolutely nothing planned for life. I have no savings, no long term goals, no specific dreams of any sort (other than the vague “contentment with life”). When asked what my dreams in life were, I couldn’t even think of a…

Holy shit, this is terrifying and depressing at the same time. 

At least we have pancakes.

At least we have pancakes.

To forget

Does forgetting come with age? I don’t mean forgetting where you left your keys, or forgetting to check if you turned the burner off before leaving the house. I mean real forgetting.

I mean forgetting how to write. Forgetting what it meant for your fingertips to burn at 3AM, when you couldn’t type fast enough to keep up with the thoughts tumbling out of your head.

I mean forgetting how to create. Forgetting how it felt to swirl paint around with a brush and use it to make something that was wholly yours. Forgetting what a piece of chalk felt like in your hand, and forgetting how those brush strokes came about as you caress your old paintings with your finger, almost as if they were some stranger’s art.

I mean forgetting how to dream. Whether it’s about getting into a certain school, or landing that perfect job, or even finding a way to stay in the best fucking city in the world, it’s forgetting what it feels like to want something so badly that you exhaust all your options and still refuse to give up; what it feels like when all your insides hurt and the world is collapsing around you as your dream flees further and further away.

I mean forgetting how to love. Forgetting how the butterflies and the stomach flip flops felt when you saw a flash of a grin and a wink across the room. The searing, red-hot, can’t-wait-to-have-you-inside me passion that wouldn’t allow you to make it to the bed. The absolute bliss in lying next to the other person while the world around you is left behind and the only two people that exist are you and him.

Does growing up make you forget about all these things? Are love and dreams and art pushed to the side by security and bills and responsibility? And if that’s the case, how do I start to remember again?