I am 24 years old.
I am still studying, though I quite lost as to which direction I ought to move. The crossroads have never been more perplexing than now.
I might not be deist. I don’t really know anymore.
I am tall, though not uncannily. I used to dislike my height for the thought that it made me stand out like a sore thumb. I wanted to blend into the ocean of heads. But now, I’ve learnt to appreciate distinction.
I like strolling in the night. It is quiet and cool, and it grants me a space for reflection which often the day selfishly refuses me. Sometimes, the world just seems to move too quickly, and all about you becomes a psychedelic blur.
I enjoy nature; though I cannot adequately define what it is that I enjoy about it. People say it’s lovely, it’s beautiful, it’s marvelous etc. I feel all that about nature too, but there seems to be something more than poetic pulchritude; something like an inexpressible inwardness..
I find writing pleasantly therapeutic. To be able to share with the world all the mind’s stirring appears to be the best relief for a cloistered soul. Quite similarly, it expels all those pestilent thoughts, and brings clarity and focus back to a weary mind.
I like cycling and often wish that cycling had been made the prevalent mode of transport. But I immediately reconsider upon suffering the pangs of the afternoon sun. If only the weather were better, and we could all cycle, the earth would be so much less mad at us.
I often joke that I want to become a farmer. I imagine myself living by a picturesque countryside, planting berries, herding the cows, and running across moors alongside my trusty sheepdog. I would set up an organic food stall and be well acquainted with the local residents. And I would be content leading that simple, meaningful life. But we all know life isn’t all that rosy.