Living Life in Typical Kindergarten Fashion!

"And I was so young when I behaved 25, yet now I find I've grown into a tall child." It is sublime line sang in an artistic and agitating musical composition by the Asian-American artist Mitski in her song First Love, Late Spring—a song permanently etched in my mind and a sentiment that consumes every fiber of my being. As a 12-year old child, it was typical for me to hear the phrases "Old soul" or "beyond your years" or "mature for my age" ascribed to me, often in direct comparison to my more outgoing and excitable peers. In hindsight, there was an subliminal message that existed within these laced compliments, an undercurrent that highlighted a form of peculiarity that existed within my subconscious. Still, it was comfortable to exist within that pedestal, and they were titles that I wore like golden stars, in  typical kindergarten fashion. 

However as I grew to age, I found that this pedestal had started to crumble under my weight. Years of repression had inevitably forced me back to a regressive state, as I began to adapt interests and reactions attributed to younger children. Yet, I found that amidst these regressions, I rekindled a spark in my early childhood that had previously made the world around me a fun and excitable place to be in. 

A Visceral Need to Record My Existence 

Like how children have the tendency of hoarding phones and recording amusing homely videos centered around tedious parts of their day (some even going as far as to post these videos in social media, in an attempt to receive a morsel of internet fame), I too maintained my childish form of self-importance in writing, a visceral need to record my existence, talking in tangents about the most boring things lettered in flowery adjectives. I was first accorded the title as writer during the tender age of 9, when I wrote a rhyming poem inspired from my affection of bunny rabbits (Up until now, I still stand that they're among the cutest things to grace this Earth). With enough parental encouragements, my interest began to deepen and my scope of experience began to broaden. However, as I grew into my craft, I had recognized that I began enjoying it exponentially less and the spark that had once made the endeavor so exhilarating began  to dwindle. Instead of a favorite past-time, writing became a means to an end, an action that was necessitated in every academic function, and a way to compensate for my lack of mathematical sense. Growing into your craft also entailed growing into a harsher inner critic, and I grew increasingly perfectionistic in my effort to appease perceived audiences, a type of individual pressure which hindered my ability to finish whatever I start (as I pen this right now, I had already written over more than 10 drafts of varying topics, including a feminist essay which I will regrettably relegate to a personal project rather than an academic requirement). 

Upon recognition  that my dilemma was rooted in my stubborn inclination to distinguish myself as among the best, I began to recalibrating my strategy in a way that gave more leeway to imperfections and mistakes. And indeed, spit-balling whatever thought that pops into my head has proven to be a lot more fun and time-efficient than boring my eyes out every line and paragraph that I conceive. Surprise, surprise! Writing for the sake of writing is just a lot of fun, and I almost forgotten. 

A World in a Kaleidoscope of Thought 

In my most formative years, I had a surplus of free time which I generously spent living inside my head. I remember having an overactive imagination at age three, so much so that my earliest thoughts felt acidic in nature. My hyperactive headspace brought me to a lot of unlikely spaces so early in life (like the time I found myself latching from the coattails of a giant decorative parol hung from the ceiling at NCC) that there was simply no room in my life for boredom. Up until now, I still retain the same habit of walking around in circular motions when I think. At present, my life, thus far, has primarily left me preoccupied with impending tasks and academic requirements and I breeze through these with unamused unease. Reintegrating this perpetual cycle of creative thought was a game-changer in reintroducing joy into my poor battered college self withering in the face of her compounding backlogs. Though my tasks continue to be tedious at best, I feel more motivated doing them like I would imagine defeating an opponent in an action-adventure brawler-based video game. Huzzzahh! 

It's in The Little Things! (Quite Literally) 

I would damned by the Marxists in saying this, but I have a penchant for collecting cute little things with no other logistical use than making me happy looking at them. My history of collection-making started from a young age when I developed a hyperfixation on the first five generations of My Little Pony, eventually leading me to scour through American surplus stores to search for My Little Pony figurines in pathological obsession. Soon, my roster of ponies began to expand, to the point of being nearly uncountable! For the life of me, I have no damned clue what compelled me in those figurines to cultivate such a vicarious interest, but this hobby was put to a definite pause after I rearranged my priorities later in life and (tried) to maintain a frugal attitude regarding money. At present, this old hobby rekindled as I find myself browsing Shoppee in my downtime, keeping an eye for the latest vintage Sanrio finds. 

As we grow into age, I am of the belief that we become more inclined to pursue certain actions in line with a conventional purpose. We are all burdened with the responsibility of being active functional members in a growing society. Although these are undeniably noble and adult undertakings, I believe that revisiting aspects in childhood enable us to rediscover aspects of ourselves that have been sidelined amidst the wave of growing responsibilities, and that comes from a person like myself, behaving like 25 turned to a happy tall child!