Earlier this month, I found myself tracing historical lines - trying to catch specific moments when I first became me. When I was 13, I knew absolutely nothing. I barely remember having a personality before 18. I was starting to make objectively poor choices at 21. I vocalized my needs and my dreams at 22. At 23, I managed to fight for whatever was in my control, even if it meant muting those needs and those dreams. Now I’m 24, wondering what I’ll feel like at 25.
I was always under the impression our twenties aren’t meant for maturing. They are meant for walking blindly, one step in front of another, and slowly realizing much later we had the privilege to see all along.
But part of seeing comes with acknowledging the change around us. We go through time shedding versions of ourselves over and over again. Then one special year, we expect the sum of all of our experiences to settle into a fixed identity - a statue we dust off and carry with us for the rest of our lives.
To an extent, that is what happens. The magic of it all, however, is in the act of surprising ourselves. It's in the fact of never truly knowing who we might become even after we’re expected to.
I can’t live each day holding the sum of all of my experiences with a tight fist. Though it would be a disservice not to at times, there are some days I want to soften my grip, unbind my fingers, and see how far I can go without the anchor of my past selves latching on to me.
Then there are days I want to start preserving - before time and people start eroding qualities of myself I once knew and want to protect. When we acknowledge change, we must also prepare for self-preservation.
Below are three versions of myself I’m holding on to. More or less, they’re poetic vignettes of memories I have built over the last couple of years. If each lasted this long, I’m certain they will stay and transform into something richer, far more surprising.
The Artist
museum walks. local shops. overpriced coffee and a quiet read. laptop chargers and a pen with a lost cap. observations in the park, judgment in the bar. oh look, it’s happy hour. bookmarking journal pages with teardrops and fine lines. lighting candles. always lighting candles, even in daylight. burning sage. collecting library cards like bookmarks. sketching with new colored pencils. pinterest is a home I hate to call home. writing nothing. staring at white for far too long before spilling ink on my palm. the paper is smudged again. what do we call artists if they’re not really making anything, but are fantasizing about creating? perfectionist - imposter?
The Socialite
espresso martinis. neon lights. black corsets and chunky gold jewelry. raw oysters in the dark. alone at the bar, sipping gin and tonic. spilling ice. breaking glass. applying perfect kajal lines. smoking a joint on the roof, speakers left uncharged. intimate dinner parties. dancing under disco balls. crawling after bars. hosting with love and anxiety. meeting strangers and their strangers. pregaming with popeyes, recapping at brunch. open mics - bad timing, raw jokes, good laughs. photoshoots on the pier. drunken ballads in the corner. concerts after concerts after concerts. summer fridays. endless rooftop soirées. charming block parties. making feasts for friends. baking olive oil cakes for you - with you.
The Homebody
sunday nights are for saging, cleansing, and for sweeping. the roomba is “stuck” again. making lists to feel in control, what a brutal illusion. wandering the grocery store aisles for fun. gasping at strawberry prices. calling everyone I know to tell them how expensive fruit is. everyone except my mother. lounging like a cat, stretching like a cat. coming home to rumi. I think to myself about the space I created out of thin air far too often. steeping loose-leaf tea. annotating sappho’s love poems. there’s ink on my fingers again. afternoon naps. watching movies, reading smut. smoking in the living room. using old candles as an ashtray. it’s hard to relax when tomorrow knocks on my door before I can even say goodnight.
˚ · • . ° .
The Humdrum:
[a list of life updates I can recall and string words together for]
Broad City. I tried watching this years ago but my adolescent brain was not ready to take such hard-hitting comedy and absurdity with a tiny grain of salt. Now I get it. It’s a distant and slightly less pretentious cousin to Sex and the City. I spend most of my weekends watching Abbi and Ilana find ways to fuck up an average day in NYC.
I made a new playlist. It’s called ‘c’mon let’s get outta here’. Think, Stevie Nicks, The Blue Nile, Carly Simon, Kim Carnes, and Norah Jones. I made it thinking about the feeling of someone you love introducing you to a new and exciting experience.
French 75 virgin no more. My sister came to visit from New York and I figured it was an optimal time to try out my first French 75 cocktail. As a new member of the ‘I do Gin, not Vodka’ club, it’s unfortunate I never tried it before considering it is now my official drink of choice.
Road House. I’ve never seen Ghost - just Dirty Dancing 1 and 2. Patrick Swayze in Road House plays a hot, mysterious, quiet bad boy. This movie felt nostalgic to me because the plot felt a lot like a stereotypical Telugu action movie. There’s a rough town, a sinister wealthy politician, a good-natured one-dimensional heroine, and a protective all-star hero to save the town from the corrupt politician. Easy Netflix watch. Great eye-candy.
New York City. I can’t say much because of dishti [evil eye]. I can say that come summer, I’m ready for another beginning in a new, familiar environment.