Isn’t it ridiculous that I should be feeling seventeen again?

I haven’t been reading Little Women or the Katy or Anne books, or any sort of chick-lit. I haven’t gone frolicking with cousins. I haven’t taken a vacation. There hasn’t even been a decent spell of rain.

It just seems to be the gentle afternoon breeze, an aberration on this hot, sunny afternoon. Winter is nudging me, reminding me that it is saying goodbye, that one season of nostalgia is soon to be replaced by another. February is the month of hard studying and preparation for entrance exams, anticipation of World Cup matches, farewell parties at school, pre-finals, snatches of reading amidst all the bustle- do I really want it all again? Or would I rather have the summer vacations and the endless days of indolence that they bring along?

Neither.

I am out on my own now, living with people I don’t know, but I’m not regretting it. Because there does come a time when you have to move on and actually do all that you’ve been dreaming of. If, as a sixteen-year-old, I dreamt of Scottish Highlands, now is the time to go see them. Call it a bucket-list if you will, but some time, you do have to start ticking off all the things you wanted to do and populate your ‘Done’ list.

I might be horribly wrong and this just might be one of the usual bouts of meaningless dissipation. But I feel adventure in my bones, a lot of girlish vigour, and a curiosity that promises to carry me through whatever lies ahead. Amen to that.

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