Let me set the scene for you: I am in the dining room, God Help the Girl’s soundtrack playing in the background, my feelings abounding. It’s that sort of night. It’s a sentimental, warm night. The kind of night where you want to cry for no reason, or dance without any care, or watch a movie you loved as a child. It’s my kind of night. Very warm, tinged with sadness–just enough sadness for the wallowing to be sort of fun.
I have decided what I want my future to look like. For my mental health’s sake it’s going to be pretty calm. Sea-lapping-against-the-shore calm. Flickering-candlelight-and-the-smell-of-spices calm. Earth-tones-and-green-gardens calm. Calm enough to cry and laugh in the same conversation. Calm enough to be productive and happy at the same time. I want to live in a world where my worth isn’t based on my productivity, where I am allowed to make mistakes and grow from them, where I am allowed to take time for myself. God, I want to laugh a lot. I want the air to be pollution-free, I want to be kind to others. I want to not feel guilty for wanting, or for being found wanting. You know? Calm. Or maybe calm isn’t the word. Maybe the English lexicon does not cover the feelings I want. Maybe what I seek is utopic. Me, the foolish dreamer girl.
It’s that sort of night.
I’m kind of older than I was when I reveled without a care. I feel as though I was always old, always aware, always sad. And now, in a few months, I will turn eighteen and become deliberately mad, deliberately partake in the madness that is adulthood. I will be stranded on the tightrope of teenage hood and adulthood. I will grow mad.
It is that sort of night.
I can’t wait to be aware of what I need on like a visceral level. To feed my insatiable appetite without worry. I suppose I want to be happy, content. Making a life I would be proud to share with someone. I don’t want permission from the world, from my family, from society to live the way I want to. Jesus Christ, I want the freedom I was promised.
Yes, it’s that sort of night.