Unfolding the chronicles of my existence@20.

‘And infrequently, I pour all this down in the diary, endlessly unfolding the chronicles of my existence, and sipping this cup infused with the aroma of strong coffee.’

And I sit. And I wonder.

And I smit. And I wander.

Turning twenty? Crazy, crazy thing.

In your twenties? Even crazier.

I don’t know if this happens to everybody, but I am assuming myself to be a little normal, at least here^

We were just, you know, ten or twelve.

School and friends and finding happiness in this favourite/lucky pen.

We grew up. A little older, probably fifteen-ish phases. The teenage system was a wreck.

Falling for celebrities or this random classmate, the over-hyped stuff they start calling ‘to date’.

Then, the special thing of turning an adult. Eighteen.

College and course, the endless chase and sources.

Suddenly, BAM!

Twenty hits you, harder.

There’s something unusually overwhelming about being this age one moment, absolutely dismissing the next.

Age is just a number? Agreed. But it’s the phase so correlated that I am talking about here.

Snapping out of all the various stages until bidding a goodbye to my teenage, I haven’t felt more complicated, ever.

For some reason, I am happy.

I see myself a little complacent for not being a part of the crowd. I see myself exploring the vivid horizon of the happiness seeking participation. I see myself laughing on things that people presume to be togetherness. And I still seem to proudly belong to the old school tradition of dating and marrying this one man and not stripping down in front of ten.

But for some reason, I have changed, and I guess we all do.

I miss my school, but probably, I never fell in love with it. Yes, I made these two friends who are consistently tolerating my tantrums, even though they don’t have to, but the idealism of how ‘my school days were like the best days of my life’, never really enters into my mind.

I miss the little things that I probably never gave importance to. Things like wearing the same purple uniform, avoiding the different dress code on Saturday and stuff like getting late to catch the bus.

I probably miss the fact that I have got some brilliant memories from the fourteen years of the ‘Marian’ journey.

I am yet to fall in for my college; a splendid place for people who want to smash the corporate world and be the boss of budding ideas. The claimed ‘Asia’s best undergrad management college’, trust me, is.

Just probably, I feel a misfit.

In fact, I have been a maze in this particular dimension. I haven’t seen myself falling for places. I fall for the way. I fall for the essence. I fall for people. I fall for a little something.

Crushed and crumbled, I have realised that experiences make you bitter and better; you decide the amount you carry.

Nothing’s permanent but still, emotional overflow is a disaster.

It’s creepy, but you can fall in love at nine, when you can’t shit spell it or, or at thirteen, when you are handling your period, or even at sixty four, when you have trouble working with your arms and legs.

It’s indeed, a beautiful feeling to dance on the rhythm of the most soothing music in your heart, but it’s as painful to cover up, to let go and to open your hands and let the memories fade.

Friendship is a pure, magical soul. But the magic gradually disappears. People grow up, change, learn and appear strange. One day, you’d agree to it, for nothing stays for eternity.

Infinity is a concept. It’s a bliss, but only for people who have the ability to compress their hearts into windows of forgiveness and forgetfulness.

You’d complete your University with courses and degrees, go for a job, hunt down the best package, go for some business or transform one, spend about one third of your remaining life in progressing and promotions; the rest one third in family and kids; the leftover in pensions and insurance.

There’s no time. There’d be no time.

They say, travel. They say, read. They say, study. They say, greed.

Nobody tells us to follow what this four-chambered creature says. Pumping life, it tries. We are busy. It tries. It still tries. Silently.

And times like these, even the silly thing doesn’t know what to say. Speechless. Connectionless.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel sceptical. What? Why? How? Where?

Don’t you ever wonder too?

What are we getting?

Why doesn’t it feel any good?

How is this making us any better?

Where are we really heading?

So I say, twenty is a whimsical mess.

You gaze at your last twenty years. You suddenly see your another twenty years coming across already.

For a moment, there’s no feeling.

No happiness or sorrow.

A plain thread woven with some transparent colour that nobody is able to borrow!

There’s no certainty. There’s no sanity.

Only consistent changes. Only constant add on confusions.

For my mother says that it’s been a while. And she believes that it’s gonna be alright.

Time be the boss. Destiny be the cause.

Someday, some moment, some millisecond, we all are going to unfold the chronicles of our existence.

Some at thirty, some at eighty.

What’s gonna make a major difference is perhaps, our ability to pass through this twenty-ish phase with minimum regrets and maximum threats!

So, probably, I’m gonna look back at this stage ten years later and hold the microphone to announce proudly, “And I said, twenty was a whimsical mess. You gaze at your last twenty years. You suddenly see your another twenty years coming across already.”

HappySundaySoulFeeding. (‘:

Like what you read? Give Pratishtha Gupta a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.