I heard there comes a time when emotion stops being a concern.
Thirties, they called it?
I suppose by then, we would’ve gotten used to ourselves—having experienced life, death, hardship, prosperity—that there’s really no more questioning our feelings.
I suppose by then, we would’ve seen hopes crushed, dreams killed, friends lost, and passion hardened. It would all feel familiar.
By then, emotion will finally make sense—or we’ll just have learned to push it aside, ignoring it.
I am not thirty, and such things remain a mystery, an aching question that lingers.
For now, I ask:
“Why do I cry?”
Why do I feel a pang of guilt, remorseful and hesitant to kill an ant? Why do I pray for a spider, who is crushed beneath the foot of the person next to me? Why am I broken, when I pass by a deceased animal? Why do I tremble, when illness threatens vitality I do not own? Why do I look at life with pity, and shed tears for pain I only imagined? Why do I feel for things I cannot change?
…
True maturity, it seems, will be measured by how much these questions bother me. Right now, I can say with confidence: that I am nowhere near mature—not by a long shot. I will continue to wonder, to feel, and be bothered by these emotions.
For now, these emotions will feel foreign. They haven’t become family yet. And I can only hope to learn their secrets through continuing to write, and continuing to ask, and continuing to cry. But it will all confuse me for the time being.
Why, I ask—I can only dream of answering.
And so, maturity, it’s far out of reach—for now.
Featured Image is a frame from the music video Bad Apple!! by Alstroemeria Records.
Write Our World 