The difference between adults and teenagers is that adults are self conscious and more stressed out – because age and responsibilities are a coupled pair. Expectations of the ones around you and your own become more real, more pressing when you realise you can’t sleep 3 hours for 7 days anymore. More distinctively, adults are proud. Adults are too damn proud, often for no good reason, really. It’s as if piling up years were the same as piling up knowledge. You can more easily become stuck in habits, traditions, thoughts because, well, they have been a part of us for so long – they must have been correct all along. There’s the belief that at some point, by accumulating years, we should stop making mistakes. But guess what? We still make mistakes. Only now, we are too proud to admit it. We call it our quirks, we call it circumstances, we call it things of life. It’s as if at some point, by accumulating years, we stop being driven by strong, irrational, childish emotions, because those romantic things are exactly just that, romanticisms that one should only read in old Russian novels. But in reality, you never stop feeling things, no matter how many years you pile up. People still get angry, hurt, in love, out of love, sad, depressed, miserable, suicidal, happy, ecstatic, crazy, radiant, except that these things aren’t compatible with our image of “the responsible adult”. They are not compatible with our pride. So we keep them to ourselves. We keep all these things, these natural human responses, as if they were some sort of shameful disease, all wrapped up like messy yarn balls, and we keep them inside, buried underneath all our age, all our knowledge, all our ~experiences~, all our pride, because god forbid if we ever show that we are, indeed, just humans.
I’m 22 now.