ADULTING
22 Years of Life, 22 Reasons To Live
Happy birthday, self.
Before I was 22, I was a hopeless romantic 16-year-old high school achiever obsessed with Michael Faudet and Lang Leav’s poems.
“I still search for you in crowds,
in empty fields and soaring clouds.
In city lights and passing cars,
on winding roads and wishing stars”
— Lang Leav, Lullabies
Between 17 and 18, this 16-year-old rose-tinted eyes met the existential angst inside me, the kind that wanted to scream every feeling she had while on a cliff.
By this time, I was blasting songs like FM Static’s Nice Piece of Art, Unwell by Matchbox Twenty, and Lifehouse’s Hanging by a Moment on repeat for days.
I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell
I know right now you can’t tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you’ll see
A different side of me
— Matchbox Twenty, Unwell
I hadn’t reached the point of wearing thick black eyeliners at that time but it was surely the peak of my emo days.
At 20, I was in a state of despair. Death happened and I found my teenage self watching childish cartoons like Tom and Jerry and Mr. Bean to cope with the gravity of my emotions.
At 21, I moved on. My despair turned stale and ever since I only believed in one thing.
“It is what it is.”
Then, I turned 22.
As I celebrated my birthday alone behind its actual date, I sat near a window at the very end of the restaurant and ordered chicken lauriat and halo-halo.
Despite not having a cake or candles to blow, I willed myself to make a wish. But I couldn’t make a wish. I felt contented with my life.
It is what it is.
Turning 22 felt like an arrival. Every song, every catastrophe, every book read and movie watched, every thread of action and inaction led me to this moment of calmness and acceptance.
I know life is messy and life will be messier soon but turning 22 is an acknowledgment of all the messiness that I already braved through. It is realizing that I already come to terms with all the things that I did not become — all the mistakes, all the paths I didn’t take, all the courage I didn’t have a long time ago.
Nevertheless, I found myself retracing the steps and missteps that took me to this moment. This time, not to get mad at myself but to reminisce some of the cozy, sad, surreal, random, and often contradicting things that breathe meaning into my life.
- Nice Piece of Art by FM Static
- the tiny sliver of hope that perhaps, just perhaps things will get better
- the idea that everything will pass
- sunsets
- sunrise
- the dogs that keep me company when I’m alone
- videos and pictures of random moments and travels inside my gallery.
- movies that either distract me from myself or make me stare at myself
- Unwell by Matchbox 20
- writing poetry
- crying
- cooking for myself
- random Pinterest posts
- sleeping, lots of it
- Harry Potter
- that digital stranger from France who told me that someday I’m going to live life on my own terms.
- the pretentious and egoistic fear of not being a loser and making something for myself.
- Youtube videos made by people miles away from me, whose lifestyles and backgrounds are completely different from mine
- the upcoming John Wick’s Ballerina in 2025
- learning touch typing one summer to cope with existential anxiety
- podcasts like Invisibilia and Deeply Human
- The thought and perhaps, the feeling that I had lived so many lives in this single lifetime, and there’s more life to live in this lifetime
I’ll admit I felt guilt and shame while creating this list. It does not involve grand things like love, family, patriotism, and ambitions. It looks more like a series of ordinary things haphazardly thrown together.
I’m a series of ordinary things haphazardly thrown together by death, evolution, and chance encounters.
Perhaps, I’m not the only person who feels guilt and shame for living a life devoid of grand purpose. So, I would like to end this internal monologue by leaving you with a quote I found on Reddit:
The literal meaning of life is whatever you’re doing that prevents you from killing yourself.
— Albert Camus
