Member-only story
About Me — Patatamus Synonymus
An alter ego on the journey of exploring “How did I get here?” and “What now?”
The night I turned 12, I wrote a poem called “At 12 Years Old. “ The main idea: I’m getting old, time flies too fast, this moment will be gone forever, and I’ll never be 12 again. Now, imagine how I felt a few months ago when I realized I was about to turn 35. Needless to say, existential dread was involved.
But as if that wasn’t enough to turn my hair white with stress, another, more practical concern began to creep in: not only had I already lived through my youth, but I’m also not even financially independent at this age. In an attempt to keep myself from spiraling into despair, I started analyzing my past.
The memories that shine brightest from my childhood revolve around books, my grandma’s cats, and the nature surrounding her house, which sat at the end of a picturesque village in northern Romania. From an early age, I realized that books are my sanctuary. And if I could hide in a cornfield with a book, a cat, and some snacks — well, that was bliss.
I dreamed of becoming a writer who worked in a library; I would be surrounded by books all day and do nothing but read and write. But I was also fascinated by the workings of nature: What do insects do? How do plants work? How are…
