The show, it must.

I honestly believe now, with every ounce of my being, that the essence of good writing is being able to detach yourself briefly from the realities of the world, and bathe the world in a dimly lit beauty of iridescence. I used to be able to sever myself and let my entire existence immerse itself into that briefly constructed universe, and the only connection between this world and the other are the sequence and emergence of words, phrases, lexicons. Shimmering, vague descriptions of this fantastic alternate universe, not unlike the current one I inhabit in.

What did I lose by being too entrenched and suffocated with the responsibilities and realities of growing up? Possibly my flair of English, after taking up three different languages, of which neither I’ve fully mastered. I’m hitting 22—is that number even real?—and it feels like I’m slowly crossing that threshold of no return. Wasn’t there a saying something along the lines of, youth makes us feel immortal and invincible? I truly have felt that way, but with a gnawing shock that dawned upon me only a few weeks ago, I’m slowly shedding away these bindings that I have once associated myself with.

And maybe, as a display of resolute and maturity, I’ll be doing something that I’ve been wanting to do for ages but lack the willpower and dedication to do so: I’ll be joining a gym, and hopefully make some noticeable changes to my physical outlook.

By the by, the show must go on.