“How old are you?”
It’s very odd that people still ask this question, knowing full well the answer. It’s ironic and funny – with a pinch of sweetness, delegating to the individual a sense of youth and/or immaturity.
I’ve been thinking about this question, as I’m sure many have, during this transition from adolescence to adulthood. And truthfully at eighteen – I don’t feel like an adult. I feel like I’m still waiting for validation, that epiphany, the screaming “When did you ever make these kinds of decisions?” to jolt me into a realization that I’m not a kid anymore.
I still haven’t found it, it still hasn’t found me. And truthfully, this has been the number one question on my mind for the longest time – and that’s rather sad. Horribly, horribly sad.
So what do I do?
I reread my blog entries and found…
When I was sixteen, I was a loner – a sophomore without many friends, not any I considered close. Friendships to me were secondary, I travelled the halls at lunch or would hang around my English teacher’s class. I was the odd kid doodling in the back while people were eating their food. I was deathly afraid of any kind of social interaction and avoided it as much as possible, locking up during times of extended socialization. I believe Gary knew me during this time but we certainly were not close – at least not as close as we are now. I believed that being mature meant getting good grades, writing well, and not much of anything else. Be a good boy, follow the rules, and you’re a grown up.
When I was seventeen, I was a wanderer – a junior who didn’t really care much for AP Chemistry, talked very little with everyone else, and talked a bit too much with Gary. My friends were very few and close, but I still lay rather obscure to everyone. Then, suddenly, I was showed the other side of the tracks – that San Leandro wasn’t the only place there was to be. I believed that being mature meant living, simply living every day as if it were the last. And damn, how I chased it.
Now, eighteen, having my senior year behind me whilst in the pit of freshman year, what the hell do I believe in? What makes an individual mature?
Hell if I know, nor do I care anymore.
I still make off jokes, grow my hair long, dress horribly, and have little class. I still watch Star Trek, love The Lord of the Rings, and revel in all forms of science fiction and fantasy.
But I believe wholeheartedly that the essence of life is ambition and without it nothing is possible.
It may not mean “maturity”, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t mean growth.
