I miss my anonymity. I miss the nondescriptness of a tacky, one-of-the-available-six templates of my blog. I miss the charm of, “So who is Ideasmith really?”-“I’m just a faceless voice. I’m just a statistic” conversations.
I miss the lightness of being unknown. I miss the comfort of merging into the masses. I miss being average. I miss having an unenviable life and one that people who do listen, are willing to commiserate with.
I miss the striving and the unawareness of drudgery. I miss the struggles from before they became stressful. I miss the gentleness of meaningless fantasies, cheap & plentiful like soap bubbles. Also just as pretty and joyful.
I miss being in my twenties. Come to think of it, I missed them the first time round too. Or maybe not. You don’t get to thirty-one (soon 32) without passing through 20, 21, 22…and so on. Even if you didn’t live them as you think you should have, even if you didn’t relish the meal, it did go down your throat, past your heart and right into you.
I wonder what 32 tastes like.