ashley

A birthday means nothing. Sure. Even if it means nothing, even if I'm just a year older on a random sunny Monday of April, the fact that I decided to make it good, after years and years of not doing much on the day of, is quite significant. It's also very telling of how much I've decided to just do the things I want to do to make myself happy. No longer a spectator in everyone else's special moments, I decided to be the protagonist of mine, too.

I still think that the front lobe fully developing at 25 is a bit of a fantasy (is it really that serious ?), but these past few months, it's been a pleasure seeing myself carve a life I want for myself, step by step, moment by moment.

It's the biggest space I've ever had for myself, and the blinds are open, lighting the room with a lamppost's muted glow. White walls, dark floorboards, my clothes all over the floor; it's all I ever wanted. Not exactly where I wanted it, it's not Paris yet, but the seaside is a close second choice. The time will come, it always does if I put my mind to it.

I spent the whole winter surrounded by people, and I'm starting spring on my own again. There has to be some symbolism in this. I've never been busier, the good kind of busy, the one that makes me feel like I'm finally becoming someone I can be proud of. Lately, I've had many encounters with adults (more adult than me, that is) who ended up wanting to know why (and how) I ended up here; one of them said "it's impressive, to be this fearless." It might be. My uncle thanked me for the book I gifted him for Christmas and sent me a long text about how he was glad I still took interest in reading despite "the chaos your life seems to be, at least from afar." I told him I didn't want to regret anything once I'd finally settle down. I think it all boils down to that, in the end; this desire to experiment, to see, to feel, to say "fuck it" and just do it.

While stacking my boxes in the trunk this morning, I jokingly said that I had moved way too many times in the past few years, and that I surprisingly had less and less things to move each time. I learn how to let go of things, progressively. How much of myself am I leaving behind anytime I move out ? How much of myself should I give up on to start again ?

Everything feels so new, including myself. It's for the better; I don't want to settle for something I don't want. I can't tolerate a life I don't enjoy, and yet I try to find enjoyment in the most tedious situations. Anytime I start anew, I end up making friends, I end up having fun, it's nothing to worry about. I always tell my mom that, and she always says "I know, it's never been a problem with you." I think this is just who I am.