My thoughts aren’t novel, but each one I have layers on top of each other and builds to a new revelation, strengthening synapses and firing repetitively. We are told we are wasting our youth, pushing the boundaries of what it means to be alive and testing our limits. Sometimes it’s living life to the fullest, and other times it’s indulging in tomfoolery that will either make for a reminisce or a cautionary tale. In the moment it’s exhilarating, frightening, explosive, and flickers out as quickly as it burst into existence.

What does it mean to be young? The old will say it’s inexperience, a lack of knowledge that comes from the weathering of life and hardening of our souls. Others will say it’s strength, the promise of infinite possibilities and self-determinism. Ultimately, I think it’s self-discovery, a process we forget all too often as we age. Do I have the courage to advocate for myself, to fail, to learn, to grow? Or will I resist change? Will I stagnate?

We forget these simple questions that unite us as humans, weaving together the threads of the fabric of time across generations. We scorn at the actions and behaviors of those we do not understand, those who are a culmination of life experiences we have not felt and understood. We look to othering, we hurt as we are hurt, and yet we still cannot seek to reach compromise between our future and past selves. We seek to sympathize rather than empathize, pulling from our stale memories on the shelf or lack thereof, trying to paint a picture without reference. I know what it is to be 22 now, in this moment. Will I remember these feelings when I am old and gray? I write fervently in the hopes that I never forget these thoughts, that I engrain them into my being so I can recall them and bridge a historic divide when I am frail and powerless after a life of agency.

I know that everything has been said before by someone other than me, and it will be said again by another 22 year old at 2 am a century from now, reflecting on the state of the world in all her beauty and brokenness. But it is novel to me, molding me and shaping me as a person. Marking my growth as an adult, one epiphany at a time. Right now, to be young is to be scared. To be excited. To be loved and to feel love. To want and to need. To listen and tell my story. And I will keep feeling these throughout the years, each in its own context, continually creating more layers until I forget them entirely. Until I fade away, both from the earth and all its memories. In the end, we are all lost without purpose, making it up for ourselves as we go. And yet, we do not see. We do not hear. We battle each other as we try to make the world our own, but do not realize we are all the same.

Each person has differences in their environments, a unique formula that codes their personality. But to be human is to feel. We all feel content, grief, anger, awe, and love. We are wired to feel as we experience, we interpret each happening the same. We are still unique in minute ways, but in the end, we share a commonality. We share consciousness, because we are the universe made conscious.