There comes a moment in most people’s lives when you realise you’re growing up. That you’re no longer the child you thought you were, not just in age but in maturity.
Mine was a couple of days back in Bintan, when I stared up at the bright blue skies and the distorted white, flat clouds. As usual, I extended my arm and spread my fingers out, watching my palm against the sky. I couldn’t touch it. I still seemed really small and insignificant. I couldn’t touch the sky or the world or make an impact. I’m just me, stretching my arms out; it was an illusion that had never seemed so clear before.
I’m no longer a child, I’m not young anymore. I’m planning for my future with internships, with experience-gaining activities, contemplating various careers to get into when I graduate. I no longer ask myself what I want to be when I grow up. I’m not afraid to go to parties with strangers, because I know I have enough social skills to interact with others in a relatively charming manner. I’m not afraid to be myself and do what I want to do, rather than blindly subscribing to the guidelines set down by this world. I understand my parents a little more, and am less petty towards their behaviour. At least, I like to believe so, but I’m still their child, and still have a long way to go. Maybe when I become a parent myself.
There are areas where I’m still a kid. I’m not thinking about marriage or children or down payments or housing loans or insurance. These don’t matter yet. But I know that they will, and soon. But not yet.
I know to embrace the present rather than live in the past or future. I’m learning to glance at the past to prepare for the future, but also learning to keep my eyes fixed on the present in front of me most of the times.
I still procrastinate, but I keep a list of things to do before the day is up. So the procrastination isn’t that bad.
It no longer hurts thinking about the past, it no longer stings or brings up sadness, nor anger. Occasionally, I feel some degree of remorse, especially when I’m in the midst of preventing history from repeating itself, but it doesn’t consume me any longer. The past has its own life; I’m not a part of it, but it’s perfectly fine by me.
I’m growing up. It isn’t as rosy a picture as imagined when I was 5, but it’s one that still sparks off hope within.
For that, I’m immensely grateful.