The Reality of a Reflection

I miss being young. I miss being a kid. My memories are scant, but they are still capable of covering my mind. I develop the feeling of nostalgia when I look in the mirror through my beard and the early wrinkles around my eyes from laughing. When I was 18, being seven seemed nice. Now at age 22, I look back at being seven and I can’t help but wish I were back in Venezuela having once in a life time experiences – killing scorpions, catching tarantulas and throwing rocks for entertainment – not a care in the world. I escape my warping time travel and think about today: uncomfortable, uneasy, unsure, unknown. Too many un’s, not enough funs.

I look back at age ten, living in Trinidad, a Caribbean island. When your home is an island, you have amazing vacations. When your home is an island, you don’t complain much. And when you’re ten, and your home is an island, life can be paradise.

It can be paradise.

I look into the mirror, not out of vanity, but out of question. Who is this young man peering back at me? A lover? An idealist? A winner? A failure? I look into the eyes, a pale blue that illuminate the lightness of his past. I look again. They tell me something different: the lightness is a façade – a white shield. This soldier is well armored but doesn’t appear this way.

I miss being young. My eyes were like sponges back then. We were all sponges, soaking up the water of unique experiences. Now we experience things with pre-applied soap. We cut through the bacteria; we think too much. Carefree is hard to be.

I look into the mirror again. I’m only 22. I’ve got a long way to go.

-Alex Tandy