I was always the youngest in every class I attended, a consequence of being enrolled early. By the time I graduated with a Master’s degree at 21, everyone around me were in their mid to late-twenties, starting to think about settling down, buying houses, getting married. But not me, I mean, who wants to be tied down at 21, right? So I travelled, I did jobs I wasn’t really interested in, I lived in the moment. Scrolling down a few years down the lane, somehow, I am still frozen in that glass box.
People say Age is just a number. As years advance we go from being excited about our birthdays to being intimidated at the prospect of another birthday. Because every birthday reminds you of all the things you could have done, all the things that, in retrospect, you think you should have done, whether it is about your career or personal life or hobbies. More often than not, it is these regrets that you remember most clearly when you think of what your life was like.
With another birthday fast approaching, I’m a little daunted myself. Every year that passes, I begin to contemplate mortality more keenly. Every year, every day, every minute for that matter, I get a little closer to, well, the close. It is as if I can literally see life ebb out of me, not as a whole, but in bits and pieces. And that prospect terrifies me. Death comes for everyone, I know this. I’ve had my share of lost loved ones. But pondering upon my own imminent demise holds a kind of unnerving fascination that I can neither come to terms with, nor put out of my mind.