you’re 25 and your home smells like you don’t quite know what you want out of life. you’re 25 and you’re saying, “i’m fine” to no one in particular, because there’s no one around to ask. you’re 25 and you’ve spent half your life listening to your own pulse, making sure you were still alive. you’re 25, but you don’t feel 25, you feel 105, you feel stuck and lost at the same time; you feel trapped, but also petrified, because the thought of freedom scares you. you’re 25 and it feels like the world has moved on five years ago; it feels like you’re arriving at the party that’s been over for a while, everyone’s gone and it’s all stale pizza and leftover cheap wine, and 90s music that you feel like you should know, but you don’t. you’re 25 and everyone’s talking about a quarter-life crisis and you think that maybe, you know how it feels - it tastes like microwaved food past the expiry date, and smells of bleach and mould; it sounds like sunday phone calls and pretending that this is the life you want; it feels like the anxiety of rent that is too high, and a job that feels like a noose around your neck, because you’re becoming the person you hate. you’re 25 and you’re not having fun. you’re 25 and you feel guilty, you feel wrong, you feel like you don’t belong; because this is not what 25 is supposed to feel like - it’s meant to be all sunrises by the ocean and drinking without hangovers and laughing from your belly and kissing boys who don’t make your hands tremble. you’re 25; this is your life and it feels like you’re doing it wrong. you’re 25, you’re scared, and you are lost. you are 25; you’re not alone.
“There were days, rainy gray days, when the streets of Brooklyn were worthy of a photograph, every window the lens of a Leica, the view grainy and immobile. We gathered our colored pencils and sheets of paper and drew like wild, feral children into the night, until, exhausted, we fell into bed. We lay in each other’s arms, still awkward but happy, exchanging breathless kisses into sleep.”— Just Kids, Patti Smith.