In my mind as a 22 year old, a burst of excitement, anguishing anxiety, twinkling dreams, and blue worries collide to fight their own respective place in me. Everyday I am aware of who I am becoming to be. In the whispering noises of the city, in my friends’ smile and laughter, in the last cold sip of coffee after reading, in stepping on crisp leaves on the ground, and in pretty much every detail in everyday life — I constantly feel and notice. I absorb quickly to these momentums of life and ponder to know what is worth for me to keep with me. The nonchalant teenage years from the past hold me accountable to seek to be before becoming and to be found before finding. It’s harder than it sounds. At times I feel utterly empty to be and there seems to be nothing in me to be found. I wonder if anyone can ever stop growing up. I wonder if I will ever feel grown up enough.
I am leaving Chicago in less than 40 days now. That number does not seem enough for me. I am attached to many things here. Not to mention, good-byes are one of those strange things in life that gets harder the more you confront them. Then I will be onto another destination, another transitory season of temporarily living in one place, then another. Here’s a little secret: I say when I grow up and settle down at a place, I want to collect mugs. What I mean is I want to be a home for cherished people to come and share their treading thoughts in life over a mug-ful of coffee or tea. Warmth flowing up in the steam of fragrance, holding my hands around a mug, I want to uphold the moment of conversation as it is. This is my lofty dream. I am not there yet. I am far from there. As a 22 year old, I jumble over vulnerability and insecurity. My lips hold vague truths and question marks. I know that as of now, all I can do is stay curious about what’s around me. And tell myself that it’s okay to feel restless. It’s because I feel restless, I am free to scribble over mistakes and still take them as adventures. Easier said than done. But at least on this windy and cloudy day in Chicago, I wrote something down and my words were found — just by little.