Quarter-life Crises.

I have often questioned why someone chose to name the age of twenty-one a momentous feat, and disregard twenty-five as a mere bump on this 'hill' we are tumbling down with such un-relenting pace. It is afterall a quarter of a century. Twenty-one is of no significance to us, really. We're just mimicing the tendencies of big-brother USA. And if fifty is going to be named a significant event, twenty-five should be considered no less important. Is that not logical? Or am I simply going on a rant about nothing?

Anyway, I've started off by trailing onto a tangent. That is not what I sat down to write about today.

Of late I have felt, as I quickly approach that age bracket of 21-25, an anxiety pressing down on my chest, hard. I'm about to have my fingers pried from the childhood to which I desperately cling, and be flung, face-first, into that dark realm of faceless suits, closeted alcholism and looming deadlines. I want to run into the warm embrace of my mum and have her send away this ugly world that's coming out to get me. I'm not ready. Please mum, I don't wanna go.

I've seen it happen to older friends. I'm being pulled into that spiral of irrational panic where you fleet halfway across the world, drop out of uni, end relationships, dye your hair blue - anything to side-step that transition from carefree youth to overworked drone. And of course i'm exaggerating...there are adults who are inspired and full of life, but I fear the reverse like I once feared the dark stare of the drooling monster under my bed.

It is often overlooked, the quarter-life crisis; it is hidden by the great, black shadow of the dire straits of the fourty-something year olds of the world. Are the fancy cars and lurid affairs of the middle-aged so different to our tattoos and trashy parties? We are both but trying, with no real hope for success, to halt an unstoppable force. We're clutching onto tufts of grass, scrambling for something secure to hold - for none of us are ready to meet this hill's end.