21-year-olds are out grabbing drinks with their friends, getting boyfriends, and seeing places.
Moi? Je suis ici. Je m’allongeé sur le lit. Je devrais dormir mais à cause d’un examen final que j’ai pris plu tôt ce soir, je m’inquiète de beaucoup de choses. Je pense à mon travail, la fête surprise de mon père, l’école et la faculté de droite où j’espère d’étudier. Je pense comment je vais payer ma carte de crédit, ma facture de téléphone. Je suis jalouse de ces gens qui s’inquiètent des vêtements qu’ils mettront pour la fête la semaine prochaine, ce que leurs petits amis font et oú ils vont aller ensuite. Il semble que leurs vies sont très simples.
People who post about family problems/arguments on Facebook despite of knowing that their post can be seen by the involved relative or by people who know the person they are talking about, are either asking for trouble or just stupid.
Sad how social media, despite of its ability to connect and re-connect people, has decreased relationships to virtual conversations that betray the true words that people need to say.
I think the most painful realization comes when you find that you cannot speak your mother tongue as well as you do the language of the land where you grew up. My English is evidence of this. When something as simple as a colour, or the name of an animal in your mother tongue leaves you dumb. Yesterday I could not find the word for ‘turtle’ in Somali, only after my mother reminded me, did I recall knowing it.
We betray our mother tongues, for the languages of nations who will never fully accept us. We let the strangeness infest our mouths until we forget how to accommodate our original tongues.
Your life is not an episode of Skins. Things will never look quite as good as they do in a faded, sun-drenched Polaroid; your days are not an editorial from Lula. Your life is not a Sofia Coppola movie, or a Chuck Palahniuk novel, or a Charles Bukowski poem. Grace Coddington isn’t your creative director. Bon Iver and Joy Division don’t play softly in the background at appropriate moments. Your hysterical teenage diary isn’t a work of art. Your room probably isn’t Selby material. Your life isn’t a Tumblr screencap. Every word that comes out of your mouth will not be beautiful and poignant, infinitely quotable. Your pain will not be pretty. Crying till you vomit is always shit. You cannot romanticize hurt. Or sadness. Or loneliness. You will have homework, and hangovers and bad hair days. The train being late won’t lead to any fateful encounters, it will make you late. Sometimes your work will suck. Sometimes you will suck. Far too often, everything will suck - and not in a Wes Anderson kind of way. And there is no divine consolation - only the knowledge that we will hopefully experience the full spectrum - and that sometimes, just sometimes, life will feel like a Coppola film.