I am the luckiest person alive because I exist
Sometimes, I am overwhelmed by the sheer amount of existence and possibilities happening all around me. My friends are leading their own lives: one recently started a new job, another is testing the waters for a side hustle. A high-school classmate got engaged, and another is experiencing the heartache of her life (a five-year relationship!). In their eyes, I'm probably someone trying to navigate her first big girl job post-graduation.
This might read like a stream of consciousness, but it's intentional. Particularly with my recent blogposts, I felt I've been unconsciously trying to fit my ideas into a neat, four-paragraphed shape. I never felt the need to come to a digestible conclusion with my writing, and usually I let myself explore every untangled thought to where it takes me. So, I wonder where this intruding pressure of being "easy to digest" is coming from. Probably myself - and if I'm the one who made it up, then I'm also one with full autonomy to unmake it, too. We have so much more autonomy than we think, and it's almost funny we rarely use it, out of made-up fears (e.g. Am I being too messy?) in our heads.
I guess it's the pressure of my mid-20s, of feeling like I should have it all figured out by now. I think I've been asking my writing to resolve into something clean because I mistook other peoples' lives for finished stories. I looked at my friends' engagements, heartbreaks, new jobs, and assumed everyone is either where they wanted to be or just knew what to do next. But everyone I know is just as untangled as I am, mid-thought, mid-becoming, isn't it? The self can never be finished; it twists, turns, unfolds itself, until the end of time.
I feel in me all the possibilities, these days, and I feel like the luckiest person alive. I hope it isn't a fleeting feeling, and I wish I can eternally inscribe it into my heart, like a carving on a tree, so I can always remember how fickle, yet beautiful being here is.