The Fickle World of a 20 Something.

It has recently come to my attention how fickle I have become. Even at the now grand old age of 26 I am something of a dithering fool. I am plagued by indecision everywhere I go, suddenly every choice I make feels like it could be the be all and end all of an ideal I cling to. I am stuck at a crossroads with hundreds of paths I could walk down, but if I turn down one, will I loose my way to the others?

It is a common phrase; your twenties are the best time of your life, it is perhaps this expectation that is so debilitating. If my twenties are the best time of my life, perhaps I am living them all wrong. I am muddled by questions and decisions, to the point that even deciding  what to wear every morning is a palaver! Who thought deciding which shoes to wear could take a giant leap and become thoughts of what am I really doing with my life, but there you have it, boots or flats are now the grand philosophical questions of the day. 

So I sit on my metaphorical roundabout; I imagine there is a bright red swing set I sit on while I ponder these great questions, that in itself may just be thought procrastination, pushing myself higher and higher as if hoping the dizzy heights will give me some sort of profound clarity, while the rest of the world zooms past with what feels like drive and determination.

Am I really the only one who is lost? Am I all of a sudden devoid of the resolve I thought I had? Am I really so afraid of failure I can no longer find the courage to try? If I don’t make the most of my twenties will I be plagued with regret for the rest of my life? And how exactly do I make the most of my twenties? Do I use this time to be free and experience life? Or do I set the foundations for my future? What if I lay foundations in the wrong place and forever destroy something that could have been? How do I keep all these thoughts in my head? They feel like they are falling out of my ears in streams of gibberish and causing floods of emotions, indecision and plain hysteria. And the biggest question I find myself desperately trying to pick apart; when did life get so serious?

It's difficult to realise your life is nothing more than a tangled ball of wool; too many threads that look like they will untangle the mess but in reality they pull some places too tight and leave even more ends unanswerable. And that maybe life wont be what I had planned when I was 5; I am pretty sure becoming an astronaut is out of the question. But perhaps something better will come along. And until then, if you want me, look for me on the days I feel lost, wrapped in my duvet watching movies I am ashamed to have on my 'recently watched on Love Film Instant' list. 

Restless

Restless. London makes me feel restless. In a city with so much possibility it is easy to become lost amidst desires to succeed and stand out. I find myself desperate for both; success and recognition.
They don't necessarily go hand-in-hand. I want success in life, which for me means a career I can be proud of. This desire inspires me to write. In dribs and drabs mostly, but I am still writing almost everyday. The key here is consistency; one day I will have a portfolio to be proud of; hopefully stuffed with both published masterpieces and glimpses of genius in the form of tidbits, scribbles and doodles. It's a long road, particularly from the perspective of a 25 year old who is only a year into her first office job and a year and a half out of university. But, clutching my two degrees, desperately trying to make my mark in the workplace, while simultaneously charging down the bull that is living in London, I find myself, oddly, restless.

But restless for what? As far as I can work out, I am craving success and that desire is overwhelming. That's the thing about desire, you can never tame it, even by filling your life with this, that and the kitchen sink. If you want something else, that something else burrows into your conscious, ruining your concentration with a vice grip to rival Darth Vader, grasping at every idea that breaks free. Even as I sit here writing this I am wondering if there isn't more I could be doing to fulfill my childhood dreams.

I find the only way around this restless desire is to just roll with it. I do something new, different and impulsive. Although, I will warn you, reacting to the restless feeling with rash decisions is addictive, similar to the adrenalin junkie who throws himself (or indeed herself) out of a plane for kicks. You might find yourself dying your hair red, saying yes to a date you weren't really sure was a good idea or waking up in a different town than the one you started the day in....

This is where recognition and success fork into two parallel yet entirely separate paths. Recognition for my life's work is obviously something I crave. But, the dream you have of your funeral and what people would say about you (don't judge me here everyone does it...I am not a crazy person, in this respect at least), my unconscious fills itself with people who remember the things I have done that brought them happiness. The recognition I want, is happiness. Alright, now you can laugh.

In all seriousness, recognition for me is the moment you are remembered by a complete stranger for a kind gesture, or a friend for the laughter you bring, induce or even exclaim. Happiness is greater than hope, fame or even success, for the simple reason that it means more everyday. That feeling of a balloon swelling in your chest when you think of another, be it friend, family or lover. That grin you can't suppress, even on the tube when it makes you look like a complete nut, those are the moments to be proud of because for some reason for most people, happiness is secondary.

I guess the conclusion I have come to, stumbled across in these ramblings, is that success comes with hard work, but recognition, for me at least, is about making the most of your life, and doing it with as much openness as I can muster. At least that way, I will be remembered....even if it is only as that nut who never stopped smiling.