Lost in time

The girl who observed

There is sorrow in my heart, and there is fear. A fear that a version of me is stuck somewhere in time. A fear that I will spend the rest of my life searching for someone who is, unfortunately, myself.

I am twenty-seven. When I was nineteen, I wanted this life with everything in me. I wanted adulthood because I thought it was a place people eventually arrived at. I wanted stability. Responsibility. The freedom to make my own decisions. I wanted to buy books simply because they interested me. I wanted to travel when I desired to. I wanted a home that looked like me.

Now I have those things.

I have a beautiful apartment. I arranged every corner to my taste. I finally have the kind of quiet I always imagined I would.

But there is something I didn’t expect.

I think I lost someone on the way here.

Not the ambitious girl.

Not the hopeful girl.

The girl who observed.

She was always watching. Watching people. Watching conversations. Watching the world make fools of itself. She could sit through an ordinary afternoon and leave with an idea that refused to leave her alone. She could look at someone and wonder what their soul looked like. She could look at society and see the limbless monster she is; unable to fight her own wars, so she turns us into soldiers instead. Judges. Juries. Enforcers. Victims. Sometimes all in the same lifetime.

I dare say I once saw her soul.

It was dark and void.

Writing used to come so naturally that I assumed it always would.

Then one day I began treating it with contempt.

I thought it was strange. Too unconventional. Too philosophical. Too much.

There was no applause.

No audience.

No proof that what I was making mattered.

So I slowly stopped believing in it myself.

That hurts to admit.

Because I can see now that my greatest critic was never the world.

It was me.

And now I remember.

I remember what it felt like to disappear into an idea until the world outside became quieter.

I desire that again.

I long for it.

This isn’t simply nostalgia. I don’t miss being nineteen. God knows I don’t.

I miss the part of me that believed an ordinary moment deserved to be examined.

I miss the girl who thought every conversation was hiding a philosophy.

Returning to her won’t be easy.

At nineteen, imagination arrived like an unexpected visitor. Now it feels like someone whose trust I have broken.

My talent has become like a jilted lover, more sensitive than the tender horns of a cockled snail. She startles easily. She no longer comes because I ask.

Perhaps she shouldn’t.

I left first.

But I don’t think she has gone forever.

I think she is waiting to see whether this time I will choose her when no one is watching.

So I will wait.

I will write.

I will nurture.

And one day, I will earn her trust again.