Adulthood

When did you first feel the weight of time pressing into your chest — was it a moment, or a slow forgetting? Who told you that you had become an adult, and did you believe them, or merely nod to keep moving? Have you built a life, or quietly complied with one already drawn? What part of your childhood did you silence just to be taken seriously, and how many masks do you now wear to hold your world together? If no one expected anything of you, who would you become? Do your routines protect you — or imprison you? What have you sacrificed at the altar of stability, and does it hum quietly in your sleep? Do you still dream in wonder, or only in strategy? What truths did you once know that now feel inconvenient to carry? What part of your spirit has survived the pressures of productivity? Is it too late to unlearn? What does play look like when it’s no longer allowed? And can you grow, truly grow, without ever growing up?