Wrinkly soul

I drink my mint tea in the comfort of my room, enjoying the temporary tranquility of nothingness. There is an absence of people, of things, of stress and desires. I sip the hot water and plunge into an inner debate about why the world works the way it does.

Life is overwhelming. Death is simple. I've embraced the banality of this realization for a while now. In my mental framework, some people do the things they do because they love their lives. But that is a minuscule number of people. Most are stuck in a routine and fed with an illusion of freedom and drugged on hedonism.

I don't understand people my age. Why do they do the things they do? How do they manage to become oblivious to the triviality of their own lives? I start asking myself the same questions because the only truth in this equation is that — statistically — something is wrong with me. People point that out; it makes them uncomfortable. They fail to understand me, just as I fail to understand them.

Chasing alcohol and sex-induced highs is not my cup of tea. I've had too many other experiences in life. I've seen a lot and felt too much. At some point in my journey, my nerves became frayed, and I've realized that freedom feels different from what I imagined.

My mind is now free, and I cannot even feel sadness. I've started chasing home and love. I want to grow roots to feel joy, pain, and all the deep experiences this existence could offer me. People say I'm wasting my young years. I'm making strange choices.

I'm insufferable. I drink tea instead of vodka and read books instead of drunk texts. I fail to see the importance of smaller things in general. My mind is a burdensome element of any conversation or emotional engagement.

I want to retire from all of this and just feel warmth and quietness. I want to live out my 50's in my 20's. I will probably not make it past fifty, anyway. I want to skip through all the obstacles and all the joys to reach stability. In the most real sense, I want to make myself tea in my own home and be content.

Am I making the wrong choices? Why does everybody have the right to judge me for my choices? My body has not caught up with my life. Even the closest people doubt me. I'm discarded for not having lived enough.

But I have. It was just a different life.

I'll be 25 when I'm 50.