Looking Back

For any Americans amongst my readers, Sixth-form is the last two years of high-school

I'm driving along in the car with my fiance, staring aimlessly out of the passenger window whilst Cindy Lauper's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun plays on the radio. The bouncy pop tune, whilst originating about a decade before I hit my teens, nevertheless reminds me forcibly of my adolescence; that sense of possibility and aspiration that abounded and the feeling I could do no wrong.

We drive past a school just as the bell rings and I see a procession of children sauntering out of the sixth-form centre. I am struck by their youth and innocence. When I was in sixth form I felt so old, so mature, so past any sort of childhood. Every atom of me strained towards adulthood and independence and all that came with.

I was sexually active – prolifically. I drank, I had tried a couple of substances still listed as illegal and I yearned for more experiences; craved them. I gaze at the fresh-facedness of these boys and girls who look so very very young to me, even though I am only in my early twenties now. I am shocked to think of the thoughts I had and the things I did when I was that same age and repulsed by a few people who had encouraged me.

My spirit feels crushed by the weight of the dreams and desires I had fostered at that tender age. All around me trees have fluttered into blossom as crocuses merrily carpet the grass with patches of purple and gold and the daffodils sway, head-heavy, in the February breezes.

I sigh as I see the signs of spring everywhere and am struck by the burgeoning year as I am every year. Each time there seem to be new hopes, new needs that I long for and I am still longing. How sad to be rendered immobile by nostalgia when I'm not even in my mid-twenties. I feel desolate for the opportunities I missed, the years squandered or taken from me, the things I never achieved.

Spring has come around again with the promise of long days, warm nights, summer joy; yet before I know it summer will have faltered into Autumn and I'll be anticipating Christmas again. The circle of the year seems to spin faster every time and I am egging it on, always waiting, always hoping.

Sometimes I remember to stop - to enjoy the present moment, stand still and absorb the view, or the sun, or the smells of the season. More often I am waiting, hoping, looking forward to the next month, the next season, the next year when everything will be better, easier, more joyful, more satisfying.

Outside the sun is shining and here I am sat at my computer just watching through the window, feeling like an outsider in my own life, in my own mind sometimes. Birds sing with sheer exhilaration at being alive and each note tweaks at something in my chest struggling to stay joyful despite everything.

The burden of just being lies heavily on my heart, I am trying to shake off all that precious wasted time. I am here, now and things are coming to me that I have waited all my life for, but that means that I will have to say goodbye to other dreams, other hopes. Making a choice nearly always means giving something up as well as getting something and, even if it's our choice, it can still hurt to say goodbye to things we'll never get to do or be.

Can you believe it? About six hours later and I'm sitting in the exact same spot, typing on my computer next to the kitchen window. The bright blue sky has faded to a pale blue-grey and darker clouds are shimmying across, their edges trimmed with gold from the evening sun.

An aeroplane soars straight up at 50 degrees leaving behind a double blaze of bright-white that slowly fades at the tail. Watching aeroplanes always makes me feel philosophical; I wonder where the people on it are going and why - what will they find and do when they get there? Perhaps I should go and get on a plane and see where I end up.

Dark trees are silhouetted against the bright, pale expanse of sky and a house looms shadowy in the foreground. Everything I see seems tinged with significance and sadness today, even the face of my lover as he works; his eyes serious with concentration, the laughter lines not visible from this distance. When he hugs me I inhale the woollen scent of his sweater, his face warm and hands cool against my skin. How can it be possible to love someone so much that it hurts to hold them?