The Next Five Years.

This weekend wasn’t particularly good for me. I tried following through with my routine, but something about weekends throw me off. I repeat the motions: I go to the bathroom, I wash my hands and face, I drink a glass of water with my anti-depressants, and make my coffee-choco. Mom made pancakes Saturday morning, but only after seeing I wasn’t up for breakfast. But Sunday morning was worse, under the guise of getting better. Like most bad things, one should at least try faking it till they make it. However, that didn’t work this time.

Pain demands to be felt, and so I had a cry in the privacy and comfort of my bedroom. I blasted Of Monsters and Men, which never fails to help me recover. I distracted myself with Supernatural fanfiction because fake angst is better than real angst. I snuggled in my fluffy covers because fake cuddles are easier to get than real cuddles. We all have different ways to recover. Thankfully, mine still works.

The routine really helps, and I’ve been adding bits and pieces to it, just to see how much I can put myself into doing. It’s been working well, but I keep forgetting to do my exercises before going to sleep. I should work on that.

But it reminds me of when I was a kid in school, and they would ask us to make an outline, or I guess a timeline, of how we spend our days. And I would just lie on them, because I didn’t really have a fixed schedule. What kid does? Like you wake up, eat breakfast, and the day is yours! That’s why it’s called a childhood. Somehow, maybe that was their way of telling us we needed to get our shit together, but of course it just drowned in the ocean of insignificant things you learn in school.

So when they ask me, “where do you see yourself in five years?” I haven’t an answer. I don’t even try to look at myself in five years. Are we supposed to? Whenever I try, I see myself in an obscure bookshop in a street that’s been there for at least a thousand years. I’m browsing through books that have been passed to different hands throughout time, waiting for a new pair. But that’s not exactly what they’re asking for when you’re applying for a job.

The more I look at it, the sadder I become. Because if you compare it to, say 50 years ago, it’s much better in a way, but it’s still limited. There’s little room for people like me who don’t fit into society, and don’t really want to try. Are we expected to just roll over and get with the status quo? Are we too idealistic after all the naive movies and books we’ve seen and read that we can’t conform belong? It’s tough not knowing where you fit into in this 7-billion-and-counting-pieces jigsaw puzzle. It’s even tougher not knowing if you want to.

Cynical I may be, I am also optimistic. It’s something I strive to maintain each and every day, because I don’t want to lose that innocence. I want to keep seeing the world the way I saw it when I was a kid. I wake up, eat breakfast, and the day is mine. Some days it’s hard to keep in mind, but that’s what makes it so important, because others don’t even try. So I’ll spend a lot more time finding out who I am, and who I want to be, before I look into the me in five or so years. I don’t suppose that’s too much to ask.


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