In Remembrance of Youth

Weekends are for crashing into bed and tucking yourself beneath blankets; your favorite teenage playlist banging rock music in every corner of the room as if it is some kind of a personal familiar comfort, melting the world of its temporary intimacy and sense.

Weekends are for reminiscing and travelling back in time. Your unmade bed is a space machine and your imagination are wings transporting you to a decade of wander and wild spirited youth.

Suddenly, I was 15 again.

My hair was long and jet black. My eyes were painted with the color of ghosts. My lips screamed of crimson red. My skin reeked of a mix of sadness and perfume I stole from my mother’s purse. My words were as deep as the night and my soul was pure.

I was mad at the world but I was cradled, safe. Under the shelter of what I once knew as home, I laid my head and rested well, and thought to myself that my future is far and distant.

But tonight is the future, and here I am speaking to my 15 year old self as a form of apology.

I thought I knew better than to abandon her ideals and to betray her standards of the world. I thought I knew perfectly well how to be an adult and how to carry myself in the same manner as every normal functioning adult does. I thought I didn’t need the guidance of my younger days and the wisdom that comes with unadulterated youth, as much as I need to take this lonely worn-out path.

You see, I threw myself out there and tossed myself into this swallowing sea of obligations and responsibilities, only to drown six feet deep into the painful realization that I cannot survive without my youth.

In moments of lucid intervals, I am reminded of a younger version of myself: one who was feeble, foolish but strong. One whose willpower can propel a thousand ships to sail. One whose principles and ideals still remain intact somewhere within her innocence.

In youth, there is a kind of paradise that people like us are barred from entry. I am now expelled from my own history, never to belong again to a spectrum in time where I felt myself most human and alive.

I am lying safely in this bed tonight, trying to recover from the prostitution called adulthood with which I have unknowingly sold myself. I am dreaming of lilacs and lullabies and the bittersweet sorrow of my growing-up years and I find myself not wanting to wake up from it all.

I weave these words as a form of eulogy to a part of myself I didn’t realized has died too long ago.

Welcome to the funeral of my broken dreams.

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