It feels so scary, getting old

Nostalgia for the future

People often ask, “What is your greatest fear?” I would normally respond with: Heights. Public speaking. Not being loved. Pretty stock standard. What do you want me to say? In this economy? Pretty much everything to be honest. But when it comes down to it, in the small hollowing chambers of my heart, the thing that I am most afraid of is that I will not be the happiest I could be. That I wont live enough life. That when I am frail and greyed with age I will be struck dead with the heart dropping horror of realising that all along, I daydreamed through my life instead of residing in it.

When I was a teen, I pictured exactly how my high school years would be defined. Rows of lockers hiding lipstick stained love notes and century old chewing gum. Flashing strobe lights blurring with orange pulp sticking to the inside of shot glasses. Mattresses strewn across the floor stuffed with Cadbury wrappers and lost board game pieces. A killed engine and a boy in a washed out senior uniform staring at me while I was staring at the sky.

But now I have grown up and graduated, and all the things I foresaw fell short of their hallmark prophecies. Not only do I mourn their lack of existence, but I ache knowing that I will never have the opportunity to experience them in the way I had once imagined, when anticipation itself had felt like a promise rather than a meek possibility.

And even though I say that I have learned from my mistakes, I fear that I still sink into my fatal flaw of projection. As I look out at the expanse of my future, I can see it all. A candle lit apartment lulled by a spinning turn table. Sitting barefoot on a creaky hardwood floor framed by smiles and loosened hair. Smoky gigs and slick sweat. A glass of wine along the Seine. Texting him when the plane lands. Children washing off greasy sunscreen in simmering blue pools. A heavy vase of flowers feeding off the sun.

Though, while it may seem romantic, this constant projection carries a quiet pressure to conform to your own imagination, to live up to a life you have already rehearsed inside your head, so much so that it leaves you out of breath, wheezing at the starting line.

I have come to the conclusion that we do not live enough in the present. We are forever dreaming. Always thinking about something that happened in the past: some interaction, some indecision. Or, on the flip side, always envisioning the joys of the future: happy milestones, our impending troubles. But perhaps the goal is to try not to. Because in 30 years time when you wake up and cry, “Where did all the time go?” this is where it went.

By being obsessed with identifying what you lack, you miss what is around you. You miss out on this moment, here. The fresh, chewy boba pearls being sucked into your straw. Your friend walking on her hands in the shallows, legs floating behind her. Scorched thongs slapping against the souls of your feet in a packed out carpark.

Be here today. Be present. You don’t even know the date for goodness sake. And when I say present I don’t mean your construction of the present that you project onto yourself - the story you recount in your head over and over: I am (insert age), I am friends with (insert lover), I work at (insert capitalist apparatus), I am passionate about (insert infatuation), but present in this very moment. This exact second. The sky is blue. The air is crisp. You can feel the wind on your face. You can hear your heart beating through the bars of your ribs. You can smell something inexplicably delicious. What on earth else is there to dream about? How is it possible to feel anything less than fucking brilliant? Tell me how is it not extraordinary, that even through your closed eyelids, you can still see the sun shining through?

x Charlotte