What should one do when one finds oneself stuck in life? Should you take a step back to reassess your place in this modern world we live in? Should you have a mental breakdown that culminates in a hot bath with a bath bomb fizzing in between your escaped sobs? Or should you just adapt your life to the current book you’re reading and go on a rash, spontaneous trip that only a Haruki Murakami character would take, when all other attempts seem futile?
I, being the well-grounded stable person that I am, immediately went for the last choice. And hence when I had parted with my final exams and was faced with a vast expanse of free time I partook on the trip of my dreams and established the following title for my summer: How to Fix Your Life And Stop Thinking You’re A Louse: A Study Based on Translated Directions From Your Favorite Author.
Messy backpack in tow, messy hair (or what passes as hair) on end, I scurried to the airport to embark to the land of the Greeks. But I was surprised to find that the Greek islands do not exclusively offer the dizzy beach sanctuary that one expects. Instead, I found myself laboring over a 2-person tent (room for myself and my beloved backpack) with no idea as to how a mess of taupe and metal is supposed to turn into a homely refuge for the weekend. So, after mumbling endlessly to myself, creeping on my fellow campers, even “accidentally” walking into a couple’s tent to ask for help, I finally collapsed. Mess of taupe and metal topped with a sprawled starfish of a man, finally spiraling through a breakdown.
What was I doing here? What was I running from? The obvious answer would be the funk of mediocrity. The mist of disillusionment that slowly creeps on you in your twenties, until finally drenching and coating you completely.
I thought I was meant for greater things. I mean, we all do. But here I was: listlessly alternating between Netflix shows I’d already seen and social circles I’d already consumed; what I’ve been religiously doing for years.
I was probably more annoyed at the fact that there was indeed such a thing as a quarter life crisis, and I was the one proving it. Greater things indeed; the inaugural face of early onset life crises. The poster child of banality. My back hurt, my head hurt, my tent hurt. My pride hurt.
“Boy, do you need help?”
I look up at the blazing Greek sun of Helios to find an old man with coarse Greek features and thinning white hair, in boxers and a worn out undershirt, hunched over and staring at me with a grimace of a father dissatisfied with his average son.
“Murakami is always right! Yes sir, in more ways than one.”
“Ha?”
“Yes, please. I have no idea what I’m doing. With this tent and with my life.”
Affectionate annoyance molding his face, he lumbers towards me. “Come. I will show.”
I lurch up to my feet, from starfish to mammal, an amphibian-to-reptile evolution; harder, better, faster, stronger. The man picks up the poles and starts demonstrating the wearying process ahead of us, the rebuilding of my Roman empire of taupe and metal. I nod and grunt and jump to eagerly follow orders. I run to get some rocks from the nearby cliff to support our modest construction.
When we’re done he just walks back to his tent and falls back into his afternoon nap, ignoring my shows of gratitude and my excitement for finally having a place to sleep. I finally lie down and attempt to reflect, desperate to salvage an essence of a trip to Greece.
I’m stuck in life, sticky with the feeling of disillusionment and resignation, and here I am in the middle of the Aegean sea, having an intimate father-son moment with a complete stranger, with a language barrier that doesn’t allow for more than an awkward “thank you, thank you”.
I find myself thinking: yes, sure, I have no idea what I’m doing with my life, but most people don’t either. And even those who do, eventually spiral down like I just did. Maybe it’s wise to pause and take an afternoon nap in a tent in a strange place. Or better yet, take a nap back home on your unwashed sheets. Quarter life crises are a thing because we assume that we should have touched base by our mid twenties. We assume that we’re never going to stop breaking down and giving up and getting back up and trying again. But truth is, we won’t. And it might be a long time before we’re comfortable enough to actually sit back and slouch, randomly helping a lost child build his tent, in our underwear.
In the meantime, maybe take a deep breath and allow yourself the one step back. Stop worrying about always having a next move, and cut yourself some slack. When you’re done, get out of your tent and work on your tan. Or maybe wash your sheets, because they’re really starting to reek.