A letter to myself in ten years,

You would be thirty-nine. Tears spring in my eyes at that thought, is it my scary age? Would you have lived your thirties jubilantly, with a lot of strength and real, easy laughter? Or would you have already died, washed into faded blue, driven to ashes? If you are alive still, will you still find writing nourishing? Will you still be jealous, and unhappy? Or would the profanity of experience have stirred up little realisations of how to live happily, healthily, heartily? Will you scorn your elegiac loss of youth, or wear your young-time misadventures proudly on your flabby arms? Do you love yourself now?

Life, evening light. I am twenty-nine, it’s September. I teach, and skim over the loves and plights of friends, hang onto what I think is realer than most, I am listening to Mazzy Star’s Fade Into You, I am alone yet not lonely, very confused, a little lost, sedate, emotional, uncertain yet anticipatory, I live at home with my family in Singapore, it doesn’t feel right at all, I am conflicted, and torn, at the same time I am lucky for one, or two, or three, and more, I am a lucky girl to love and be loved, and yet I am constantly choked up, my head’s not right, now and then, but I think I will be ok.