that vague, fuzzy outline

(I apologize, right off the bat. It is quite more than a stretch to call this poetry. Let’s call it prose poetry.)

 

At some point, I realized few if any people actually have a comfortable handle on everything in their lives.
It’s a little startling to realize that age doesn’t automatically sort everything out.

As a child, I had this mentality of eventually grown up.
I’m not sure, now, what I ever meant by it.
That concept was a vague nod to my eventual ownership of my life.
An assumption that one day, I would understand everything.
One day I would stop learning and not have to keep catching up with everyone around me.
I would wake up with a feeling of arrival.
I was too young to understand that there is always something more to push toward.

As I look back on my younger self, I think she’d be a little disappointed in who I am today.
Oh, she’d be proud too, but mainly I think she’d be surprised.
I think she’d be slightly puzzled, because at twenty-one I still haven’t attained that vague, fuzzy outline of eventually growing up that she envisioned but never fleshed out.
You never really grow up; you just get older and hopefully wiser.
Age doesn’t merit status and achievement; what you DO with that time is what can lead to fulfillment.
“Fruition” often reads “Responsibilities”, and I’m ok with that.

My main source of discomfort comes from being the age I am.
Twenty-one is around the age that younger self of mine looked up to as people who had their lives together.
What scares me now?
I know that was a false belief; those people, when they were in their twenties, had little or less of a clue than I do as I’m in mine.
Does this translate to the people in their thirties and forties and seventies that I look up to now?
Probably.
And that’s even more off-putting.

That silhouette I eventually hoped to achieve as a young girl?
To me, it’s still just as ambiguous as ever.
What disconcerting now is I don’t think I’ll ever grow up and fill the silhouette with myself.

(The next is merely observation, and not despair.)

There is no pinnacle, only a continued climb.

(4/3 poem)

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