Ever feel like you belong in a different era? And not just because you read old literature or are into the classics, but because reading them makes you realize how a part of you was left in that classic with every sentence that you finished. Soon you notice how you don’t really keep up with the crowd your age. You cringe at their slangs, wince at their music, and prefer to stick with the very first model of your phone, only so you won’t have to learn about the new technology you’ve been missing out on. And what’s worse is that maybe you don’t want
to know. Maybe you don’t want to keep pace with the crowd. And then comes the question…
why are you so okay with it?
You start thinking your life through. You get up, get dressed for school, and your eye suddenly turns towards the same boots you’ve been wearing since ninth grade. You look up to your hair, it’s in a braid…again. You look down to your outfit, something you hadn’t really given much thought to before, and suddenly peonies and long hemlines become all the issue in the world.
You adopt the role of devil’s advocate against every little decision your old little soul makes. And start questioning yourself on why you like all things vintage? Whether you really even like poetry? Why doesn’t it appeal to you to live the same adventurous life of those your age? Inevitably you reach to a point of questioning existence itself. You go back to your wall-mounted mirror and you look again. You look at your muddy, oak suedes. All you can think of is the many different paths it has crossed on small, unexpected detours and journeys. And how each different speckle of dirt on the shoe only portrays a different story they had to tread down. You look back at your hair, the ever-familiar braid.
Brings nothing but an involuntary smile on your face looking at the simplistic beauty it so effortlessly brings about. And your dress; that damn floral dress you can’t seem to get off your heart since the day you first wore it. Takes you back to the time you never lived and the memories you never even formed. To the place your conscience resides in. Where meadows and calm were a lifestyle not a statement. Where you wish to rest your old little soul every single day upon death.
You look at how these things make you who you are. And for some reason, you like yourself like this. And maybe (just maybe) that’s enough. You’re still standing in front of that mirror and you muse that it might not be so wrong after all. So, what if you value past more than the present? I mean we all have to survive on this god forsaken planet anyway, might as well do it in the era of our choice. But then, what do I know; I’m just an old soul…
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