I sit across my brother as he sits choosing university courses. How easy it seems, to him at least, to choose the course of his life in a matter of a few classes. His eyes are lit up with excitement at the prospect of them, of the roads they will inevitably lead him down.
I sit beside him, tired, old, and weary. The light has faded from my eyes and not much makes me light up like him. Now I know that the world is not only round, but also angular and confusing and strange. The roads not taken are many and I don’t have enough fingers to count them on.
My burnt dreams are a distant ember, barely glowing, and are about to be snubbed out by the harsher, colder realities of today. Will I ever get out of debt? Will I ever be successful? Will I ever be who I wanted to be?
According to some, I am only twenty three. To me, I am a bitter twenty three, already too old in the eyes of the cynical girl in the mirror. Others have travelled the world twice over and risen to grand heights and fallen in and out of love. But I still sit at the same desk my ten year old self sat at, sleep in the same bed my ten year old self slept in, haunted by the wild and fantastical dreams she dreamt, too scared to move.
All I have left are these words; words that beat restlessly inside of me, rattling the very cage of my soul. These words are not pretty nor light; instead they flap out lopsidedly onto this page, ugly and heavy with the burdens I’ve placed on them.
And so I let them go, watching as they rise and fall to distant heights, hoping they take a part of me with them, wherever they go.