Long time, no blog. And in lights of recent events (which are way too many to put in a blog, so we'll strictly refer to them as life), I think I may have decided to write more. After all, it's what journalists (aspirant ones, too!!) do, right? Exactly.
Let's see.
There's a soft summer breeze blowing around South London. To me, it smells of freedom, yet it carries so many chains that strip me of my very self, it's ridiculous. I'm about to embark on another adventure, in the same city I so cherish and love, but somehow I'm unsure of whether or not I should do it. Yes, it would be infinitely easier to run back home and hide under some random covers. I quite enjoy thinking about that, especially in those days when everything goes wrong and you just can't see the light at the end of the...said day. Or tunnel, if you wish.
But what's one to do if this is how life goes? It goes on... and it doesn't seem to stop, not even long enough for me to catch my breath and see the path I'm about to walk onto. No. There's no time to be silly like this. The problem is, there is no time. My time to grow up is up and I'm positive I'm not done yet. I'm not self-assured and mature, or pretty enough to be an adult. Or old enough to act like one. And my heart seems to agree with that, as it feels childlike and free. I like it that way, honestly.
I feel like I'm betraying everything I once knew and swore by. Not because I want to, but because life goes on and it's making me make choices. The mature kind of choices. Whatever that means. I'm just hoping I won't wake up thirty years from now, wondering if I did all the right things for the wrong reasons. No, I want to do all the wrong things for all the right reasons. That way I'll make sure there's no regrets. None, whatsoever.
