Somedays, I feel old. And not just old, but ancient, as if I’ve been around forever and I don’t have much time left to accomplish, well, whatever it is that I’ve been put here in this world to do. There is a feeling of time slipping through the glass, of sand falling. There is a feeling of reluctance and dare I say anxiety regarding the future. And then I realize how silly I am being.
I am twenty-seven. I just graduated college one week ago (I got a bit of a late and bumpy start on the front in, but finished strong), and I’m about to get married. My life is just beginning.
And if people in their forties can start new careers and move to new cities and take up new hobbies and learn new things; if people in their fifties can find new loves and build new friendships and have experiences that they have never had before:
Then there is still plenty of time for me.
Don’t rush. We all rush too damn much as it is.