The most difficult thing about growing up is the work.
The work isn’t so bad really – especially if you’re lucky enough to actually like it– but it’s consuming. Time seems shorter because most of your hours are spent on work and not play.
It’s so easy to get caught up in the work: it’s repetitive, yet new, and there’s a distinct sense of work being safe. As long as you’re working, you’ll be alright.
And suddenly, you wake up one day and realise that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to live a life without work.
Work is rewarding, but it requires sacrifice. You have to give up certain hobbies and interests– you just don’t have time for them anymore– and you have to be prepared to get up at least five days of the week to go in to school or work, where you’ll carry on where you left off the previous day.
You might suddenly realise that you haven’t picked up a pencil in years, and find that when you try to draw, you lack the skill you once had.
You might try to write, only to find that the raw talent you once had has disappeared behind the legal jargon you have to use every day.
Growing up means leaving things behind, beautiful things that once meant the world to you. After all, growing up is supposed to be difficult.
But perhaps, if you are lucky enough, or wise enough, you’ll end up doing the thing you love the most.
And then, I suppose, all that other stuff– the beautiful stuff that once meant the world to you– won’t really matter at all.
