“20 years.” This will be my answer when people ask me about my age after 13 days; why, however, do I feel that I am much older than that? Why does the world suddenly seem different? Do we become officially grownups when we turn 20? What is so special about this number? 20?
Dare I say 20 years of success? Or tears? Or fear? Failure? What am I but twenty long years? First five of them I don’t remember. Second five of them were at primary school: young and reckless. Second five: a teenager with no destination. Third five: worried about tawjihi. Last five: I am becoming; the journey of finding myself and who I am. But how many more fives do I have? How many more fives will I waste? Do I even have one more five?
Being 20 means I can no longer feek. The second the clock strikes 12 am the night before my birthday, I have to have found myself and decided how I want to spend what is left of my life. I have to have remembered my values, beliefs and thoughts which I will be living on for the time left for me to live. Because if I cannot keep them carved in my memory: that whenever something happens, they take control, I am not a grownup, I am ‘beliefless’ or ‘valueless.’ I have to take control now. I have to let go all those years of nothingness and start looking for the real thing that will complete me, no matter what that thing is.
My journey starts now. My life starts now. But if that so, what were those twenty years? A preface. When I am 20, I am, the timer starts. 00:01.. 00:02..00:03.