Adulting is chaos. Catastrophe. War.
In its most recent bout: the Battle of Home vs. Homecoming, Home took the W.
I used to think becoming an adult just meant wearing turtlenecks (my sweater closet is slowly evolving), having a career (which I’m falling harder for each day), having a long term companion (I still got some growing to do), and becoming a home owner (Gimme 5 years).
I could’ve never imagined the trials and tribulations that lay between dirty sneaker, graphic tee, emo me and Rihanna’s elegant, unapologetic ass.
I never knew they would hurt this bad.
“In this bright future, you can’t forget your past”, dances along my spine with every step I take towards who it is that I was put on this earth to be. Sometimes, the universe will pull you back a step to pick up something you missed along the way. Sometimes, it takes the spark of an old flame to ignite the fire that will propel you forward. The art is in the decode.
Decision making in your early 20s is an extreme sport. It is clear that different things start to matter to you, while others pull you, see saw, toward them. It is a war dance.
This weekend I danced with old flames. This weekend, I danced with new ones. This weekend, I danced with eternal flames; three generations worth of ’em.
The art of war is witnessing the smoke clear. Whispering to yourself: “This is exactly where I need to be.”
Besides, I can always just flex on the gram *Kanye shrug emoji*
