Embracing my age

(Happy October 4th! Okay, I am 8 weeks and one day late, which is appalling, but hearing excuses is boring.)

When I was younger I was desperate to grow up. Teachers, and other people belonging to that group of tall all knowing beings, told me that I was mature for my age. I fed off of that - promptly stopping at road crossings to prove that I didn't need reminding, dismissing the activities of my peers as trivial and always churning with anxiety that I would slip up and act like my true age. 

I'm 18 now. Old enough to smugly sing over the two lovebirds in the Sound of Music. I am 18 going on 19 and still so stupidly young. Shockingly, I have grown up and changed since being a child, but not in the way that I expected. I'm not as scared of letting loose now. I go clubbing in loud, dark, cramped rooms and actually enjoy myself, because I'm with my friends and missing a lecture is nothing compared to missing a mortgage payment.

Actual adulthood is still so much further than I thought it would be at this age. Honestly, part of myself doesn't want to admit this, I'm glad. I'm glad that I don't have to be capital R responsible yet and I'm no longer out of step with my peers.  Being young and careless, always rushing towards the edge of actually getting hurt  minus occasionally toppling over, is fun. Having decades stretching out in front of you to correct and learn from mistakes is freeing. 

When I was desperate to act 'grown up,' what I really wanted was security. At the time being an adult seemed like being a finished product that never made mistakes. Except now I know that adults screw up all the time. There's no place in life of final safety where everything is neatly organised. As a child I was so mean to myself, expecting a perfection falsely equated with adulthood, which meant avoiding anything that seemed remotely like fun.

Now I have a lot more balance and I know that I'll never be done 'growing.' In a weird way, recognising this is a sign of maturity, but in a much more healthy way. I recognise that in decades' time I'll laugh at how little I knew now, but I don't dwell on that. I'm proud of the introspective parts of myself that reach to be a better person, but I'm also willing to cut myself some slack. This growing up business is weird, because being alive and conscious and always changing is.

- Ayomide

Just Write, Damn It!

Currently, I'm on this tab for the second time. I closed it, ran away and planned on doing some serious procrastination. I mean I could always write later on or even tomorrow. Perhaps there's a secret modern day muse out there, a step up from her ancient sisters, who would plant the whole post in my head overnight. I mean, writing shouldn't actually be work should it? 

It is, but it shouldn't be a gruesome task for me. Crafting a piece - rearranging word order, deleting sentences or even paragraphs, staring at quickly jotted notes that need to turn into actual sentences - takes more effort than reading. That's always been my convenient excuse for only writing sporadically.  But that isn't why I don't write as often as I should. 

 Really, there is no should. No one forced me to make this blog. I'm 18, a legal adult, I can do what I want. Cue dramatic slamming of doors, random napping and reminders that people in their early twenties aren't actually a whole generation apart from me. 

I don't know how common this is, it definitely sounds strange, but I have to force myself to admit that I enjoy writing. That's because that enjoyment is overshadowed by something that definitely is common - insecurity. Standard over thinking and measly repetitive thoughts stop me from even opening a word document. My writing isn't good enough, someone else could and is doing it better, I'm not ready yet. 

 If I just wait a few years, I will magically accumulate the ability to write spectacular prose. In seconds I will be able to whip up a post that conjures up feelings like the ones I get when I read a great piece. If I just wish hard enough I will get the same gift that all the people I read regularly and admire have.

At least that's what I delude myself. But, I'm having increasingly frequent moments, I created this blog in one of them, where I realise that I have to practise. Perfectionism leaves me with nothing but missed opportunities and disappointment. It's okay, even completely normal, for me to work and create writing that's bad. It's okay and not absurd for me to trust that I will get better and it doesn't matter if I'm not outstanding, because I enjoy it, damn it!

I'm hoping that having a public blog will force me into writing at least a few cohesive paragraphs each week. Currently, I'm aiming to put up a post every Friday, because I do have the time for it if I want it badly enough. And here I am, I didn't run away, some part of me admitting that I do want it badly enough.

- Ayomide