Life is a Mean Drunk: Take your time

To describe the journey of life through countless metaphors is one of the most empowering things a writer can ever do. However, it is also humbling to realize that in spite of such capacity, there are times when it is best to convey your thoughts in a simple and straight forward manner. I say this because I’m tempted to utilize “Life is like a box of chocolates”, without becoming wary of a copyright infringement risk (or worst, inauthenticity). So, foregoing my wishes at opening this essay with the wit of the writers of Forrest Gump, I would like to state that life is a mean drunk, and lately, it has been on a tirade of the things in my life that I already know about.

Things that I do know but do not recognize like a distant cousin, things that I casually write on my journal for catharsis’ sake, things that only gain meaning when you realize you desperately need it. At 25, it is only imperative that I come across these truths, however, it is also equally important for me to write about it. So, to begin…

I finally realize now that I have always been in a hurry.

Not in terms of waiting for the pasta to be al dente, or waiting for an appointment with my dentist, but in terms of the things that I can take full control of, and are usually for my own improvement. I began seeing this on the things I love to do like reading, where I would admittedly skip through paragraphs in a haste to unravel the rest of the plot. To the commonwealth, this is not a big deal, but for an aspiring writer like me, it is synonymous to cutting class. Another would be my lifelong on-and-off ordeal with becoming healthier and fitter. I’m sure everybody has their own version of this, but I’m so well-versed with Yo-Yo dieting that I could be this industry’s Taylor Swift. I want to become a better writer, but I usually end up rejecting the piece I am yet to finish. How I yearn to participate in a photography exhibit someday, you can’t even imagine, but I am daunted by the linguistics of the camera, and therefore, limit my artistic eye to my trusty smartphone.

My point is, I am a young woman of goals, with the danger of remaining as only as such. No, wait, this could be less vague: I am a young woman who knows what she wants, but is in danger of not pursuing them because she’s such in a rush for everything to happen now, and all at once. Have you felt this way? Have you been so overwhelmed by what you want to do that you end up doing none of them? My perilous desire for instant (yet mediocre) gratification resided somewhere in my brain. I had a hunch that it was the temporary flaw in my character, but I did not expect that a good emotional beating would finally drag me — all bloodied and weeping— to come to terms with it.

Take your damn time. Take your time to finish this essay, take your time to do 300 squats, take your time to talk to your parents, take your time to get to know a person, take your time to fall in love, take your time to stir, and make that homemade caramel glaze, take your time to get that sunset shot, take your time, take your time, take your damn time. The beauty is in the process — in every mishap, in every progress, in every turn. Why was I such in a rush? Maybe a common flaw of the youth, or one of the consequence of my generation. What I do know is that it created an image in my mind that kept me from living in the present, kept me from doing actual work, and kept me from learning truths about myself and others.

It’s brutally easy. How many articles have been written about this? How articles have I read about this? Countless, on a weekly basis even, but a quote I screenshot from Instagram resonates well: nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know. I have never felt more in touch with its meaning that my fingers are jumping off the keyboard in delight of owning to what I am writing. I’m sure everyone has their own story too, and everyone survived and thrived in their own way, isn’t it interesting? I would like to hear yours!

My self-inflicted conflict against time emerged way back during my university years — a good seven to eight years ago. Therefore, it only make sense to say that now is the legitimate time for me to truly start panicking (I will be 30 in four years), but I finally understand that it will lead me to absolutely nowhere, and will just prevent me from becoming a better version of myself. I started this essay three days ago, still through an uphill battle with my confidence as a writer, but you know what, I finished it.

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