I don’t want to age anymore. I hold on to my youth. Years hesitate to cross my life as I show them enough hatred.
Honestly, I desire to jumble my age numbers; I am either young or younger. Myself and my youth are the joint owners of the whole (me), I must say. Sadly, I forgot about my unremembered lullabies. I wonder if they ever existed or I was lunatic enough to be lied at in such a minor matter.
My youth is never hot, never cold….quite lukewarm. I, as a young lady, hate undefined status of things. They remind me of noiseless midnights disturbed by my old father’s voice telling us to go to sleep early. They remind me of the modest houses and buildings where I live: not so fancy, not so poor. I am a rebel against any traditions or methods of living. They only make life miserable.
Since when we have to learn how to live? I know we severely have been taught how to live according to what the society sees best. However, we (young people) have overlooked the contradictions and inconsistency made by the society. Perhaps I should fetch my unforgotten memories when I am gloomy enough to call myself “old”. I should defend my youth in the presence of my senility. At least, I can try to blossom as if I was born again.