The most reminiscing memory from my childhood was quietness. Non-existence of individuality. Remain similar to the crowd. Appear same as everyone. Ambiguity and questionings were a luxury. You don’t explore. You follow instructions. Once you start falling into set into instructions, you become quiet. Your mind is quiet. Because, you body just follows a set of rules. You stop thinking. No noise at all. No movements.
I used to wonder, as I slowly shifted from a child into a something I couldn’t quite define, when did quietness become a state of being? When did silence move from being something external, something that belonged to the world around me, to something internal, something I had learned to carry with me like an old coat that I forgot was once too big, but now fits too snugly? Was this growth? Or just another rule added to the ever-growing list of instructions?
Somewhere along the line, the novelty of questions turned into an inconvenience. Curiosity was frowned upon because it didn’t fit the model. Why ask when you can just follow? The quietness seeped deeper, turning the mind into a kind of blank canvas, but without any paint, without any color. It wasn’t freedom. It was a vacuum. A stillness that meant you weren’t bothering anyone or, more honestly, yourself.
But then I turned twenty-three. And nothing changed. I was still a kind of ghost walking through life, only the noises I made didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. The whispers of uncertainty I had in childhood had somehow become the only thing I could hear. How strange, how bitterly odd it was to realize that the noise I had avoided all those years wasn’t some unwelcome disturbance. It was a part of me. The questions I had once ignored in favor of calm were now the only things left that felt real. And yet, no one seemed to want to answer them.
Am I supposed to “know” by now? Or am I just allowed to drift, be like the others, blend in, because nobody really expects much of twenty-three? Is this the time to find the perfect voice, the perfect job, the perfect relationship—because that’s what everyone says? The older I get, the less I’m sure. And yet, I still follow the rules. The noise still rings, but it’s not clear whether it’s my own or just the static of the world around me.
What does it mean to find yourself when you’ve been told for so long to stay quiet and still? Is the search for “individuality” just another set of instructions in disguise? The irony hits me sometimes: I spend so much time trying to figure out who I am, but perhaps I’m not supposed to figure it out at all. Maybe it's all just meant to be a constant question, without a neat, satisfying conclusion.
The funny thing is, I can see the outlines of others, living their lives in such defined ways, yet still, I feel... not like them. But, do I really feel? Or am I just playing another role, as I've been taught, just playing quiet like everyone else? The “how-to” manuals seem so appealing at first—until you realize they don’t actually tell you anything. They just offer illusions. Do I really believe them? Or do I just want to?
So here I am, twenty-three, still tangled in the same threads I was at ten. The same whispers. The same questions. Maybe I was meant to make peace with not knowing. But can you truly be at peace with a question you’re afraid to ask? I don’t know. I don’t even know if the asking will make a difference anymore. But maybe that’s the answer.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I’ll figure it out by twenty-four. Or maybe I’ll still be just as silent, just as confused, like a piece of quiet in a loud room, wondering if it’ll ever matter.
So, here I am, approaching twenty-four, and still trapped in the same perpetual spin of confusion. It’s almost like I’m stuck in an infinite loop of trying to “get it,” trying to feel like I’m doing life correctly, yet no matter how many times I rerun the script, I end up in the same place: wondering if I’m even supposed to have it figured out.
I hear all these stories from people around me—about their careers, their relationships, their plans—and it sounds so... certain. They talk like they know, and maybe they do. Maybe they’ve cracked it. Maybe they have it all neatly packaged in a box that says “THIS IS YOUR LIFE, AND IT MAKES SENSE.” I think that's the dream. A life that feels like a straight line, instead of this perpetual zigzag I seem to be caught in. There’s this pressure to be ‘on the way’ somewhere, anywhere, but every time I try to follow that invisible arrow pointing me forward, I end up on some detour I didn’t sign up for. Not bad, not good, just... not where I thought I would be. And then I wonder: am I the only one on the detour? Or are we all just pretending we’ve found the main road?
Because the truth is, when I look around, I don’t see a lot of people walking with that clarity of purpose. Sure, they talk about it—loudly, confidently, as if they know the map. But isn’t it strange how so many people still feel off in their own ways? Some are just better at keeping the facade up. Isn’t that what life is, though? A masquerade ball of people with well-rehearsed routines, dancing to some invisible beat? And then I wonder if I’m the only one without rhythm. Am I missing something everyone else already figured out? Or maybe I’ve just been listening to the wrong song.
It feels like you’re supposed to have this idea of what the future holds, but every time I try to grab it, it slips right through my fingers, like smoke. All these “answers” are supposed to be coming at me, right? But they’re more like sparks of light in the distance—glimmering but too far to touch. What’s the deal with everyone else being so sure about what comes next? It’s like I missed a memo. Was I supposed to be set at twenty-three? Was I supposed to wake up one morning with this magical sense of direction, this wild confidence in who I am and where I’m going? The truth is, I feel more like I’m just sort of there, wandering through the days, listening to the sound of my own footsteps and wondering if they even matter.
There’s always this background hum, a low drone of pressure, whether it’s from friends, family, or society, telling me to get it together, to become someone. They say “You’re in your prime,” but is that just another way of saying “You should be living your best life right now, and anything less than that is failure”? They call it the “defining years,” as if twenty-three is some magical threshold where everything clicks into place. So why does it feel like I’m not even close to figuring out the basics?
I try not to let it get to me, the way everyone talks about their successes and their carefully curated “perfect” moments. It’s hard to keep up with the illusion when all I feel is the disconnect between what I’m supposed to feel and what I actually feel. And it’s not like I’m unhappy. It’s just that the whole “find yourself” thing seems so... stale. Like a bad perfume that’s been lingering in the air for too long. Everyone keeps talking about being “authentic,” but when you try to be authentic, it’s almost like you’re stepping on someone else’s toes. Is authenticity just another trend now? Is being true to yourself the latest thing that’s been packaged and sold to the masses?
So, I walk around with these questions, quietly asking them to myself, and they feel so personal, but at the same time, they feel so universal. Maybe we’re all supposed to be asking these questions. Maybe that’s the key. To always be in search of some truth that doesn’t exist, or at least, that we don’t get to find neatly packaged with a bow. I think there’s freedom in that—freedom in the question itself. It’s just hard sometimes, you know? To live in the question without trying to demand an answer.
And so I linger, in this perpetual in-between, where the clock ticks, but the hours seem irrelevant. It's funny how everyone around me moves forward—marching with the beat of some invisible drum, their steps measured and sure. They talk in a language of “plans,” of “achievements,” of “next steps,” and I’m left translating, wondering if I even speak the same dialect. They tell me I’m still young, that I have time, but the ticking feels louder now. Not like a countdown, but like a reminder. A reminder that time is always moving, even if I feel stuck, suspended in this weird, uncomfortable pause.
Sometimes, I think about those stories we tell ourselves about how life is supposed to unfold. The ones where the heroes know exactly who they are, and their journey is a straight line, a path to follow with milestones clearly marked. The kind of life we see on Instagram, in movies, in those “dreams” we’re sold. But the reality is... that path doesn’t exist. There are no clear markers, no definite signs. Just a lot of wandering, a lot of guesswork, a lot of seeing something on the horizon and chasing it, only to find it’s not what you thought it was.
Maybe that’s the trick, though. Maybe the journey isn’t about finding the destination but about figuring out that there is no destination. The funny part is, I don’t know if I actually believe that. I want to, but it feels too abstract. Too... unsatisfying, almost. To think there’s no finish line, no neat bow to tie it all up. But still, there’s a part of me that wonders—what if that’s where the freedom lies? In the nothingness? In the acceptance that we’re always going to be unsure? I can hear the voices of everyone around me telling me to get my act together, to stop wandering, to “settle down,” to make decisions. But every time I try to latch onto something, I feel it slip away. Every decision feels like a gamble, and I’m getting tired of playing games I didn’t even sign up for.
You can’t talk about uncertainty without talking about the constant pressure to have it figured out, though. That’s the real weight. It’s not the quietness, not the questions. It’s the way everyone’s asking when you’re going to get serious, when you’re going to have that “aha” moment. Like there's this expectation that twenty-three should be the year of clarity. And I keep asking myself, why? Why twenty-three? What’s so magical about that number? Maybe it’s the number that feels just old enough to be mature, but still young enough to be forgiven for not knowing. But the truth is, I don’t feel older. I don’t feel more “mature.” I feel like I’m in some kind of paradoxical state where I’m both too old and not old enough to make sense of it all.
And then there’s the idea of “success.” Everyone seems to have it mapped out—family, career, house, relationship. And I’m just here, sitting on the sidelines, wondering if I missed a class. I didn’t get the memo about how to tie all the pieces together. They’re all talking about their “accomplishments,” their “plans,” their “next big move,” and I can’t help but wonder, do they really have it all together? Or are we all just playing a game of pretend, wearing these masks of certainty, when beneath it all, we’re all still fumbling, still wondering, still waiting for the real moment to come, the one where we suddenly know what we’re doing?
There’s comfort in the thought that maybe we’re all in the same boat, though. But maybe that’s a little too hopeful, too naïve. Maybe some people really do know exactly where they’re headed, and I’m just the one sitting here in the waiting room, looking at everyone else’s tickets and wondering why mine doesn’t match. Maybe it’s not about not knowing. Maybe it’s about the way we talk about not knowing. Like there’s something wrong with it. Like you’re supposed to have a roadmap by now, a “vision,” a “dream.” What happens if you don’t? Do you just keep walking in circles? Or do you embrace the randomness? The chaos? I don’t know.
I wish I could say there’s peace in the not knowing. Maybe there is, but it feels too... fleeting. Like you’re almost there, almost at the edge of something, but it keeps retreating. The questions, the uncertainty—they swirl around me like smoke. Sometimes, I think they’re the only thing that’s really real. Maybe that’s the trick. Maybe we’ve all been looking for answers when we should have been looking for the questions themselves.
Maybe we’ve all been told too many times that we need to find our “purpose,” our “calling.” Maybe it’s not about finding anything at all. Maybe it’s just about being. Being here. But even that doesn’t feel enough sometimes, does it? Because then you’re left with the nagging thought that maybe you’re missing something, something everyone else is on the verge of discovering. But maybe they’re not either. Maybe we’re all just a bunch of wanderers pretending we know where we’re going, pretending we’re on the path when all we really have is a moment, and that’s all.
So, here I am—twenty-three—and still wondering. Still trying to make sense of the noise and the quiet, the questions and the answers, the direction and the detours. But I wonder—can I truly be okay with this? Or is there just too much pressure to find something? To arrive somewhere? Maybe the trick isn’t to find the answers, but to stay in the question. To let it be the thing that keeps you moving. Not in a straight line, but in spirals, in loops, in circles that never quite close but always keep you on the move.
And so, I keep walking. Quietly. Maybe that’s enough?
Moving through this strange intersection of life, caught between a past that still whispers, and a future that feels perpetually out of reach. It's like standing in the doorway of a room, wondering whether to step in, but somehow frozen in the threshold. What is it about that threshold that holds us there, in the limbo, in the in-between? Is it fear? Or is it just that, deep down, we’ve all been conditioned to believe that we should know what comes next?
The odd part is, the world doesn’t really ask for clarity, does it? Not from anyone. We assume that everyone else is walking with purpose, that they’ve got their paths laid out like a string of pearls, each one perfectly spaced. But the more I look, the more I realize: no one has it figured out. Not really. They’re just walking along, carrying their own whispers of doubt in their pockets, pretending that they don’t hear them, maybe even convincing themselves that they don’t exist. Everyone's just trying to keep up with the illusion. Some people just happen to be better at it than others. I can hear them sometimes, the ones who make it look easy. Their voices are full of certainty, full of the right answers, the right moves. And then there's me, sitting here with a question mark hanging over my head, wondering if I missed the lesson on how to sound that confident.
But it doesn’t stop. The questions. The questions keep coming, and I’m not even sure if they’re helping. They might just be distractions, like the static on an old radio, fuzzing up everything around me. Sometimes, I get tired of listening to them, but then I remember that the questions are all I’ve got. If I let go of them, what would be left? An empty space? A void? I think it’s easier to live in the question than to try to find an answer that doesn't quite fit. Maybe that's why I'm still here—still questioning, still wondering, still walking, though not in a straight line. More like a zigzag that never fully gets anywhere.
And yet, the weight of expectation is never far behind. The invisible pressure from everyone around me—family, friends, society—always reminds me that there’s a timeline, a schedule I’m supposed to be following. It’s a quiet hum in the background, urging me to “hurry up,” to “catch up,” to “figure it out.” But what does it even mean to "figure it out"? It’s not like there’s a finish line, a finish line that guarantees satisfaction or contentment. It's like someone handed me a map, but it's so worn, so faded, that I can't even read it anymore. Maybe that’s the trick, though: maybe I’m not supposed to read it. Maybe I’m not supposed to follow it at all.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that all these “milestones” everyone talks about—career, love, family—are just distractions. They’re little glittering pieces of the puzzle, but they aren’t the puzzle. They’re not the thing I’m supposed to be chasing. But what is the thing I’m supposed to be chasing? If I don’t know what’s next, how do I know if I’m moving in the right direction? And yet, I can’t seem to stop walking. Can’t seem to stop moving. Not because I know where I’m going, but because standing still feels like an impossible option. Even if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, at least I’m doing something. At least I’m moving.
And I wonder, in the silence of my own thoughts, how many others are feeling the same? Maybe it’s not just me, stuck in this maze of uncertainty. Maybe it’s everyone. Maybe the whole world is just full of people walking around with questions in their pockets, pretending that they don’t hear the static. The questions are too loud to ignore, and yet, we all try. We try to drown them out with the noise of “success,” of “accomplishment,” of “getting it together.” But when the noise fades, all we’re left with are the questions. And it’s funny how the questions seem to get louder as I get older, like a growing chorus in the back of my mind. Is it that I’ve stopped pretending to have answers, or is it that the answers never existed in the first place?
Sometimes, I think I’m afraid of the questions because they don’t offer any comforting promises. There’s no resolution in them, no neat bow at the end. They just hang there, suspended in the air like a cloud, dark and heavy, but never quite dissipating. There’s no roadmap. No clear-cut directions. Just the haze of possibility. The terrifying, beautiful chaos of not knowing.
It’s strange, though—there’s a certain liberation in the confusion. It’s not the kind of liberation that comes with a sense of clarity or understanding, but the kind that lets you exist in the mess. The kind that allows you to step off the path everyone else is walking and stumble into your own. Maybe there’s no one answer, no one way. Maybe the trick is to let it all be messy, to be okay with not knowing. But I can’t help but wonder, what does it mean to be “okay” with the mess? Am I really okay, or am I just too tired to fight against it?
And so I keep walking, my steps uncertain, my thoughts just as unsteady. Maybe I’m not supposed to find the answers after all. Maybe I’m supposed to be just here, in this moment, with these questions, letting them swirl around me without trying to contain them. Maybe there’s beauty in that. But it’s hard to feel the beauty when everyone else seems to have found their way, when they talk about their plans, their futures, their lives that look so beautifully scripted. It’s hard to not wonder if I missed the page where everything made sense.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about finding the answers or making sense of it all. Maybe it’s just about staying in the middle of it. In the mess, in the noise, in the questions. Maybe that’s where the real living happens. Not in the conclusion, but in the question itself.
So here I am, still wondering, still questioning. Still not quite fitting into the picture that everyone else seems to have drawn for me. Still walking through this world of noise and quiet, trying to find a place where I can make sense of it all—or at least make peace with the fact that maybe I’m not supposed to.
It wasn’t the silence that scared me, it was the thought that maybe, I was the silence. And, in that silence, I thought I was hearing my own thoughts, but what if they weren’t mine at all? And then it hit me: maybe the real question is whether I’ll ever stop asking, or if one day, the questions will start asking me instead.
- Oizys.
P.S. Started this piece in April 2023, and here I am, wrapping it up in April 2025—guess some questions really do take their time.
