I’m eighteen years old and there are things that I feel like I know more than anyone ever could, like how much the color yellow infuriates me and how I can never get tired of my mother’s voice, my friends are the closest I’ve ever had to a home and my father’s temper is almost as understandable as the Rubik’s Cube on my bedroom floor that I never could learn to solve.
I’m eighteen years old and the streets are no longer like strangers to me but even with all the new-found familiarity things still seem so hollow, almost as meaningless as all the basketball games I told myself I played because I loved the sport. I think I just liked being told how tall I was and how because of my height I somehow belonged in the court throwing balls into baskets and not really getting the rules.
My friends like to party and to them every breath is as precious as the sea, but I never learned to swim and I never learned to let loose. So I watch them dance the night away as I sit on a couch thinking to myself, I’m eighteen years old and I fear heartbreak is all that I may hold within me. I fear that nothing will ever be enough. I’ll always want to know more, to write more and most importantly to be somewhere else. Someone else.
At eighteen there is still so much I do not know. So much the scares me, some of it may seem more real while most of it is fragments of fears I’ve collected like dust over the years and they may not even mean that much in reality. There is still so much I do not know, like why the color yellow infuriates me or how many of my friends truly love me, for me. How many of them will remain my home when the year ends and we go on our own paths. Is dancing really that bad? Will my father ever change?
I’m eighteen years old and these questions are flooding my brain, keeping me up at night and maybe I’ll get the answers at nineteen, maybe I won’t. But if there is one thing I know it is that these questions will without a doubt be replaced by new ones every year. These friends might be good ones but they won’t be the only ones because home can be found in more than one place and so can love. My father may never get his shit together but then what is he if not a flawed human who claims to have love in his heart for you despite your differences. Because differences aren’t always for the worst but they just give you room to understand and accept each other more. I’m eighteen years old and maybe it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. Maybe not knowing is for the best and maybe what I know is what I need for now.
I’m eighteen years old and I think I need to stop thinking too much.-H