How strangely and awkwardly the days past, 

Days blurr into months and years, as though it happened

 within a click of our fingers and now it has paused, slowed down

And how we are all grappling with our lives

Valiently, sometimes indifferently, forever given to despair

And everyday we tell ourselves we are too far behind

How we envy those who know for sure

We are given to frequent daydreams

Inquiring about insignificant details

Of what flowers we would put in the office

Once we get the job

Which place to travel to with our first paycheck

No other age has been as startling as the one

we have finally stumbled into late one night

Intoxicated with wine, peering stupidly at the mirror

Unaware of the threshold we had crossed

Such electrifying glory it was,

Given to great depths of joy 

And to think that all of this will be gone too

In a flash right in front of our glazed eyes,

Dissolving into each other like mist.

Consolation

You are at age when nothing holds you,

Any slight contact with the world bruises you

You write

 but it's not quite writing

More of strange words disconnected from each other

Each word sitting alone

Unable to reach out 

and form a sentence.

There is too much thrashing and clawing

 for things that are too early for you to grasp on to.

And hope and belief seems fraudulent words

Your young heart is wary of them already,

Suspicious, watchful and stays away.

You dread the cold immense nights stretched out infront of you,

with daytime so far away

You still haven't gotten used to loneliness

Not yet.

But there are certain consolations, you tell yourself

Soaking in the warm winter sun with the book

 you were supposed to save up for the dreary days of December.

 And walks, long solitary aimless walks

 in which you end up dreaming out loud to yourself.

But what you really have

you don't know yet.

And that partly makes up

For what you can no longer call your own.