The tragedy of being 18
Eighteen feels so old, yet young. My heart is too worn out to know nothing, and my youthful soul is too innocent to know every single thing.
I am capable of sipping firewater but still, irresponsible to get drunk. I am competent enough to drive but I haven’t got a license to do it. Dyeing my hair seems so juvenile, even though it must not feel that way. I stand at 5-foot-2 and turn on “Gravity Falls,” whenever I get bored. I am still terrified of the dark and the only horror film I could watch alone was Jordan Peele’s “Get Out.” I desire to do a lot of things, but my pockets are empty to let me be. And, there’s this emotion of being put in a room of shame. A room full of youngsters, who have been achieving so much at a remarkably young age. Then, there’s me, sitting and gagging myself by saying, “It was a different time.”
Time is such a comical concept made by the Egyptians to keep track of sunrises and sunsets. It moves, defines everything around, and provides a sufficient calculation for people to holler or even whisper under their breaths, “Oh damn, that’s old.” By now, I already consumed 157,680 hours of my life and that is also mathematically convertible to 9,460,800 minutes, if I put it into seconds, that might just kill me. In analogy, I have the age of tagu-taguan, habol-habulan, luksong baka, tumbang preso, digital cameras, CDs/DVDs, and Barney. Frankly, if I was an automobile, I’d be antique and my engines would fail to start, and my exhaust pipes will create smoke signals, making you buy a new one.
I know that it sounds wrong in all aspects, or I was too busy counting my days rather than living them. I’ve never had any filler episodes in my life—no love interests and romantic storylines. I always skip to every ending and leave no room for improvement. Now, the thought of “endings” grapples my neck, making breathing harder and framing life as a lie made up by silly aristocrats and scholars of Socrates. It is straight-up absurd and I cannot help but think about it even more. It is not a “Will they even remember me?” situation, but a quivering “Have I done enough?” kind of question.
I grew up in a household where doing enough will never be enough, and doing harder is just trying hard. Whenever I close my eyes at night, there are flashes of agonizing frames that flicker through my eyes and there’s this sentiment of sadistic forthcoming thoughts I create. I always go back to the places and remember the shadows I once lived in. Even though it burns every part of me, I wish to stay right there. I know better than before, maybe I could change some things. Maybe, I could do so much better.
“I’ll write better. I’ll study hard. I’ll try more.” But, no one lives in a fairytale and there’s no such thing as a time machine. All that a little girl can do is dream and wake up to her reality. I always wonder if I’ll ever have my time. For many years, it is as if I was trapped in a body of a mindless soul that feels nothing except shame and neglect. I always yearn for some changes, thrills, and perfection. The last time I ever felt so alive was when I rode a rollercoaster in Pampanga. The summer breeze softly blew over my skin while the moon slowly peeked from above. That was five years ago and still haunts me and every little sanity I have left. After that night, there was a sudden drop of serotonin in my veins and a metaphysical question shuffled my brain, making me wonder and want more.
It was so easy to play the game of pretending and people-pleasing than facing the reality of everything going down.What does it take to experience it all and claim my existence, again? What does it take to know me? With all those years I spent with myself, I never figured it out. All I know is college is my only one-way token to success. If I flunk it, I will be no one. It is my only way out of misery and failure. Knowing nothing, especially myself, is the biggest tragedy I ever created.
As I trail the walk of life, I discover that all my achievements and trophies will never validate my existence.
The things that made me live were the feelings and emotions that I felt. Maybe, I was wrong the whole time. I was not ignorant of what I do not know, I was ignorant of what I do not realize. One day, I’ll let go of every single version of myself and hold myself back from asking “What-ifs?” and I will be the person I desire to become.
One day, I’ll know myself and I’ll just have to accept that life is a never-ending cycle of endless moments and memories. It creates and ends. It is a mystery or a jigsaw puzzle, and one person can’t assemble it. It was never a film or a song. It goes on and never pauses, no commercial breaks, no disclaimers, and no credit rolls. Then, eventually, at its time, it concludes.
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Grace Valencia, 18, is an incoming accountancy student. She has a deep interest in filmmaking and screenwriting.
