When i was fourteen, i had an aim to make people proud. I always dreamed that on my eighteenth birthday i would wake up and see my face first. This is would be how i would look for the rest of my life. With one day left till i am eighteen, i dread the idea. I dread seeing my shallow eyes on my birthday. I dread people hugging me and wishing me. I dread the cake. I dread the moment i will break down. Whenver mother and i go shopping, people mistake us for sisters. My mother jokes that she is getting younger. I dread that i am getting older. Not just physically. But mentally. The only thing lacking is the wisdom that comes with age. I dread my eighteenth birthday just like i dread imagining a day without my grandparents.
I called my old friend, after a month, because i had nothing better do. I wanted to talk to her. Her boyfriend picked up the phone. I could listen to them giggling at something, they were both telling me something, but i zoned out. I could see the contrast. Am i the only one lost and wrecked? Because people around me have a solid ground somewhere. Don’t they? My old friend has her boyfriend. Another of my friend has her blog. One friend has a dream of dancing to her native songs in the middle of New York City. I had a dream of making people proud. I wanted to be the reason of people’s happiness. I remember i once fell down in front of my class when i was ten. I told my teacher about how people laughed at me. She said “it’s good to make people laugh. Everyone Loves someone who can make them laugh” And from that day i made people laugh. I made them listen to themselves. It was in tenth standard that a friend told me “You can make people smile like no one else.” I look at myself now. The patched, shady me. My sinking eyes, and ever prominent collar bones reminding me, i am not eating right. And i wonder if unhappiness really is a choice that people make? I haven’t felt solid ground for so long that it isn’t a romantic Into The Wild concept anymore. I am detoriorating. And the saddest part is i am taking people down with me. I see my mother look at me with an air of resignation previously unknown to me. Because of my desolation, people are giving up on me. I don’t blame them. I am giving up on myself too. There’s a fear that has no origin, no end, no shape, face or name. Yet there is a fear that does not go. And surely does not diminish. Even on the sunniest of days. Even on the warmest of nights. And i have a childish fear that when i become 18, this state will become permanent. Like my face, like my eyes, like my collar bones. I have seas to cross, to reach out to a person. And i don’t even make the effort to swim. I think i am better off constrained within myself. The fewer people i take down, the better. But i wish it is essentially me. Because i can’t imagine how long i can fall, how long i can be lost. Can’t i float? Can i never float? Can i never find warmth? It’s fine. I will find warmth. I just hope people are alive to see me happy.