adult loneliness and takeout food

 It would be illogical to call myself an adult. After all, I only turned 18 last year - and in three months I'll be a year older and yet I do not think there will be anything about myself that is older or wiser. The technicality of adulthood has always amused me - (I'm technically 18, I'm technically an adult). When I was 13, I thought I would have it all figured out by the time I was 18 - and now that I'm 18, I wait to 25.

    Moving away from home was a given - I never considered staying. I love Trivandrum and I rave about it too much, but I wasn't built to stay. As far as I remember, the overwhelming fear of being mediocre has consumed me, and I riddle my life with inane challenges - to prove a point to what or who, I do not know.  Adulthood is supposed to be about the experience, right? What is new in it's experience when you walk the same roads, speak the same language and eat the same food?

    But oh how I adore those roads. 

    I thought the biggest challenge of growing up would be the regret. Not knowing what would have happened if you took the other road killed me. A degree in English Language and Literature was never the obvious choice for me - in fact, it was an impulse decision rather than anything else. I thought I would spend my days regretting my decision, wondering if I had taken the wrong road after all. 

    But regret, I have discovered - can be fleeting. Loneliness is a more insistent demon. 

    There are three incidents in my life that overlapped, three incidents that mark my being 18. The first is my 18th birthday - the first night I spent alone in a not-quite-comfortable-yet bed in Martin Hall. The second was the upcoming month that I spent getting accustomed to Chennai - and the final, losing several of my friends (a story for another time). The only emotion I remember that echoed so vividly was loneliness and I thought I knew loneliness. I thought I knew how to be alone but I really did not. 

    My rewards were in the food I got myself. Ordering in was now a reward - the only thing I had left to look forward to because I have always preferred eating alone, and now I did not have my parents hovering in the other room to admonish me for it. 

    When did it lose its novelty?

    Now when I look at food I ordered in, I feel sad. There is nothing novel about it. It is a reminder that this is all I have as a consolation - food. Food I probably should not get, and food that I buy with money my parents send. (How much of the money do I set aside for existing, and how much do I spend on living? Do I set aside money for the guilt in itself?) It is a reminder of this very adult loneliness that I am too young to fathom.  

    18 was mundane, but maybe it is simply me that seeks too much. 

(06/03/2024)

I wish to write about love and life - and I do tend to do it anyways. In my drawings, I map emotion and I can only hope that people understand. I wish to write about love and life, but for all my grandiose descriptions of a broken heart sometimes all I have left is a hollow one; one that wishes to be filled with starry skies and unbroken promises and rainy nights. I wish to write about love and life, but I am far too lonely for it.