Twenty Two

I am twenty two years old. That is 11,531,520 passing minutes. Or 1,144 weekends. Or 1,144 terrible Monday mornings I have forced myself to get up and look forward to the coming 1,144 Fridays I have. And I feel so old, especially when put in those terms. Yet I am so young.

I may only be 22. But I have more regrets than most 50 year olds. I have seen more, been afflicted on numerous occasions, been lied to, been promised, been loved, been a lot of things. But regret seems to be the most often emotion I have felt. I tend to feel like a pioneer and thus choose my own path. Probably why I find myself regretting a lot in my life rather than celebrating.

Or maybe I should be celebrating those regrets? Many people look at my life with disappointment. To you, I say, look at your disappointment and celebrate it. Others look at my life and ask the obtuse question "Why?" I turn to you, and ask back, "Why not?"

I may be just 22, and maybe my 11,531,520 minutes pales in comparison to those at 80 who have 41,932,800 moments. But I can rightfully say that in my 11+ million, I have owned who I am, and what I have done. I have screwed up. I have been screwed. I have hurt people. I have been ripped apart at the seams by others. But never have I ever looked to fault others for my life. If my decision has caused others to hurt me, or me hurt them, I accept responsibility. If my decision affects others, I am sure to make note, and either pursue the path or change course.

I regret a lot. But I revel in the fact that my regrets are because I am not afraid. Not afraid to choose, to mold my own life. To be who I am.

I am. And I don't regret that in the least.