So what are we actually supposed to do then. What the fuck is it all about, the twenties.
In previous generations, it seems that you had a mortgage at 18, and were with the woman you were going to spend the rest of your life with, and that was that. Done.
Where did it get complicated? To be fair we live in one of the rarest times mankind has experienced. We can do what we want. We can listen to, read, watch, go – where we want. But that very freedom seems to apply a pressure that other generations just don’t really seem to grasp.
Do you travel the world. Adapt the you only live once attitude, see the sights, meet new people, get a tan. Or do you work hard, earn the money, get your house, and ensure you’re set up comfortably for life.
There’s a confusion for me that just doesn’t seem to subside. A battle with depression, and the ending of a long term relationship hasn’t helped. But I recently stumbled across the sobering thought that I am in fact 24 in October. The thought slapped me in the face as I was bobbing along on a pedalo in the sea, with a can of San Miguel, in Magaluf of all places. But it terrified me.
I was due to fly back the next day. Back to my 9-5, paying into my pension, paying my rent. I then looked around onto the mainland beach and saw the hundreds of young people having the time of their lives. Something that had surpassed me in recent years. I then made it my objective to get absolutely shit faced, and end up stood on a table, shirt off, screaming along to Oasis “Don’t Look Back In Anger” with a bunch of Glasweigans. An objective I duly accomplished.
I suppose I thought it was some form of protest to a rather vanilla lifestyle I had seemingly succumb too.
The fact is, I reckon I know deep down that the chains can be broken. I can achieve some form of enlightenment to guide me on what the fuck to do with myself. But in the mean time, it’s hard.
It’s like being sat out at sea, on that pedalo . I suppose the only option is to just continue to neck the San Miguel til I’m brought back to shore.