Being Young and Sober

My costume felt like that of a clown. Bright pink mini dress, big hair, which seemed like it took half of my life to style, and eyeliner that felt heavy on my tired eyes. Inside the bar that my sister and I used to frequent during last summer's warm nights, I recalled how we would dance all night. When my high hemline and low neckline did not feel so unnatural on my body and mind. We drank, we watched the morning hours, we spoke to men however we wanted to without fear and question. Being a poet, the default of my thoughts is to examine every situation and dissect its meaning. Write essays of length and endless poems. The simple fact is, last summer my sister had just fallen out of her engagement and I finally got a taste of the youth I never had. Though the bar we found ourselves in three seasons later was the same, we had changed.

Sitting uncomfortably in my neon dress and crossed bare legs, my comfort was restored when the food arrived. Small plates of chorizo, halloumi and tacos decorating the table, with a humble bowl of paella placed as a beautiful centrepiece. Non-alcoholic drinks to accompany, as well as delightful conversation. This is where I feel most joy. Though, the plan was to make our way towards the loud music and crowds of people after we had eaten. Contently fed, my sister and I said how we really felt. We did not want to go to a bar with the rest of them. Once we were both in agreement, I started telling her about a Japanese pancake restaurant not too far from here.

The walls were white and the lights were cold. Usually, I adore a warming atmosphere where my skin glows and my eyes shine. But, this place did not relish in romanticisation. Nor, did it present itself to be anything it was not. While watching people our age through windows laugh along pavements, stumbling in and out of dimmed bars, we ate souffle pancakes drizzled in chocolate. Coffee and honeycomb, despite the late hour. With a background of quiet music to the, still, delightful conversation.

My reminiscing of the beauty from that evening in the pancake restaurant follows the unfortunate endeavours of last night. During these past few months, the light I felt so proud to hold had been taken from me and I was on a mission to get it back. Instead of spending time with people who had clawed it from me, or sat back and watched it happen, I went out... out. Taking my sister with me. Despite cutting half of my hair off and ditching the cat-like eyeliner for black shadows, I felt uncomfortable being all dolled up. It is never for me anymore. How I look is not ever for me. My conclusion is based on their presumptions and their expectations.

So, we were dressed up. At the centre of the city. In an Italian restaurant. Sharing a slice of pizza and a bowl of pasta in a canteen scattered with baskets of fresh bread and bottles of wine. The food was delicious and, as always, the company was perfect. Joy was felt. Tasted and heard. How I was content in that moment, too. Then, we made our way to the bar. As soon as I was knocked off my feet from the blast of bass, I should have redirected my steps. Underneath the coloured lights carried people in their twenties, dancing close together and sipping on drinks as they did so. Ordering two virgin pina coladas, we took our place and remained there for the majority of our stay. My sister danced with a smile, and I tried to join her, but I could not imitate a dance. It is what makes me feel free. And, freedom cannot be forged.

My mission was to take my power back. To grow the light that diminished into something bold. Something I would sustain and protect so that nobody could ever take it again. But, I set foot on my mission wearing the gear they put me in. Travelling towards the direction they mapped out for me and dancing underneath their strings and blinding lights. Whatever power I had found, would merely be borrowed. Ultimately, it would be theirs. Crashing into bed with damp eyes and a dense sensation of failure, I decided to scrap the mission. Re-align it to lead back to myself. I cannot, and will not, spend any more of my life reading from a script I did not write. Too much of life cannot be controlled. I may as well choose how to spend my evening.