It’s my eleventh time here in four years, almost three times per. At this rate — considering how seldom I get out nowadays — it’s one of the only places I frequent. Each visit serves as a small timestamp, from the year we went home with different people to the year we went home together, and all the times caught in between among heavy snow and mechanical horses.
Strange how often I come here when it’s so rarely by choice. I always think I’ll be up next time, that I won’t be sitting by myself in one of these great halls, cause fortune eventually smiles on every person who takes a chance on love.
I’ve been feeling like an adult.
This isn’t due to my fiscal responsibilities or my tidy home or any other things I used to use as a measure for maturity, but from feeling like everything makes sense. Like I have all the answers the way adults seem to do, because I can see the big picture, I understand what truly matters, and I don’t sweat the small things anymore.
It’s only now that I’m at a point where I feel like a grown up. Like this is finally who I’ll be for the rest of my life.
That’s not to say I’ve finished growing, that I’m not human or infallible, but there aren’t the same struggles or changes that I used to have, so my emotions and attitudes have evened out.
For a while I wondered if I’d just become another turning-30 cliché, but I realized it was never about age. Various things have brought me to this maturity, from conversations to relationships to trips far away. It all happened to be around the beginning of a new decade in my life.
Maybe I’ve been feeling this way only because things are going so well. It’ll take some hardship to test how far I’ve truly come as an adult, but until then I’ll try to live like a child, cause too often youth is wasted on the young.