*Actually, I know I won’t be seventeen forever because I turned eighteen more than a month ago.
I have always found the age seventeen as romantic. Not exactly the whole kiss/make-out/score kind of deal, but really romanticized. The age where you are still a child, still an adolescent, and still hopelessly in love with the idea of falling in love; the age where you know everything should be “this way”. Seventeen is peak of the age when making huge blunders is still okay, people can still say “Oh, you’re just young. You didn’t know better.” Seventeen for me, is bliss in disguise.
But we won’t be seventeen forever. We have responsibilities and we will have to face them head on regardless if we want to or not. We will fall in and out of love. Idealism becomes unimportant because the real world has no time for it. I was idealist just a week ago. But then reality stung me like a hornet, and I had to remember: I am eighteen.
Sometimes the word adult sounds so pretentious. I don’t pay any bills, I don’t really have any money saved. I’ve been unemployed for two months! I am not an adult yet. But I’m not seventeen.
I don’t want to grow up too fast. I never really wanted to.
But I suppose I need to soften to the idea of growing old.
