“O, to be sure, we laugh less and play less and wear uncomfortable disguises like adults, but beneath the costume is the child we always are, whose needs are simple, whose daily life is still best described by fairy tales.”
― Leo Rosten
A moment from the evening of my eighteenth birthday emerges, again, from the depths of what seems to be an ocean of time. I am sitting on a wooden bench at our town’s only bus station, the soft and fragrant presence of my girlfriend next to me. We had the entire place to ourselves, save for the swarms of moths bumping into the plastic cones of orange and yellowed spotlights. I feel loved, comforted, and appreciated, but also lost. Lost in that carefree way a wanderer might be if they didn’t care about the final destination of their journey. What I do not recall is whether I really appreciated the significance of the moment of growing up, or simply imparted importance to a notion someone else had told me matters.
Life just doesn’t parse nearly as neatly as we’d want it to. The next two decades have shown me time and again that I was not prepared. I wasn’t prepared for the breakups, the failure to secure a place at the only university I applied to, the inability to conceive of anything worthwhile to throw myself into wholeheartedly, the expatriation to the UK, the complete lack of professional vision or wherewithal, the death of a family member, or the void left in the absence of meaningful friendships and intimate relationships. I had no idea what to do with the minor achievements and successes I’ve had, either. As soon as I was done with one, I was already preparing for the next challenge. My heart was seldom in any of it. Yes, even I didn’t want to support me in whatever this was I called a living.
The station is about a fifteen-minute walk from where I am writing this. I could put my shoes on. The bench is still there; I do notice it on the rare occasions I decide to take a bus. In the past I’ve always envisioned how if I’d met me, I’d slap me across the face. Now, I feel that I shouldn’t be this quick to judge; especially so a man who was never taught how to be one. So instead, a short letter.
Hey,
I know your English isn’t up to it yet, but you were always a resourceful lad, so do your best. I am you, or so what memories I have tell me.
The year is 2026. There is no lunar base and nobody has walked on Mars. No contact with aliens either. The rest of the news, I’ll spare you them.
Instead, let me tell you about the absence of love. Don’t roll your eyes. I have known very little intimate companionship in twenty years, and the experience as a whole has the character of a thirst that neither water nor alcohol will quench. Do not fear the breaking of your heart. Push through it, and where you fail, fail quickly and move on. Be the more loving one. Try to go about these things with some grace. And understand that patience is not the same as sitting still and waiting for a miracle to be delivered to your DMs — that mistake will cost you the better part of a decade. On a related (and less dignified) note: the pornography is doing you considerably more harm than you are currently able to conceive of.
Professionally, lean into your innate strengths. While no job is beneath you, you will not find many like-minded people in places where the well-being of the individual is treated as an overhead. Your mathematics is deserting you at the same rate as your attention, but that doesn’t disqualify you from working in IT. Also, try the gaming industry. It will be an unstable place to earn a living and you will probably not last in it, but try anyway. The regret is heavier than the failure. Or so I think. Whatever you settle on, remember that experience is built by doing things and also, unglamorously, by staying. You could not possibly learn a trade properly in as little as twelve months.
Finally: we both know what the mirrors do to us. Even on the days when nothing is wrong, there is a wrongness sitting at the very centre of things. All it takes is to catch sight of ourselves in a window and we feel crooked, inhuman, undeserving of love. Just know that movement is life. This goes well beyond vanity. Physical reality is crushing enough without volunteering to be weaker. And for crying out loud, sleep.
Whether you pay heed or not is beyond my control. Just keep in mind that for what life has in store for you in the coming decades, it is you who need to make a conscious effort to be kind to yourself, first and foremost. The rest is mystery.
Yours truly,
x
I know I lost him somewhere around the second paragraph. Of course I did. He is eighteen, after all, the love of his life is by his side and the moths are going about their business under the high-pressure sodium lights.
Truth be told, I still don’t sleep well. I have not written a word of the game I claim I want to make, and the prospects of a meaningful relationship are what they are. Every item outstanding, some twenty years overdue.
My Skechers are by the door. Fifteen minutes there and fifteen back. It isn’t far. It never was. The bench is still serving its purpose in silence. Is anyone else making lasting memories, while sitting on it? I could imagine, but I couldn’t tell for sure.
tsvetoslav shalev 
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