I need to instantly take advantage of my want to sit down, keep still, and slam the keyboard to at least make some sense out of myself. I have to write for myself, having written for others and having been judged by people's keen eye for mistakes in grammar, syntax, and use of English itself.
But this time, I don't want to write for myself. I want to write for you.
I want to tell you that I'm only an average 25 year old lady struggling with mid-life crisis. It turns out I am not the same person that you have admired a year ago. I am not good at words. I am neither good at socializing nor conversing with people in a casual manner.
I struggle everyday. With my fears and doubts. Human frailty, so to speak.
I don't know how to play any music instrument. I can't meaningfully press piano keyboards and come up with a soulful music that can make you giddy. I can't play the guitar and jam with you when you want to sing your heart out. I can't be an awesome drummer and make you proud of my strums. The strumming that I know involves my palms, the wall, and my incoherent appreciation for noise.
I do know how to play the flute, but that needs a review of my grade three music lessons. And also, I need to clean my nearly two-decade flute that is now covered with dust.
I don't know how to sing like a pro. I do know how to sing, but only for myself in the shower. I also sing with videoke machines. But I can't make you proud for singing on stage while being admired and applauded because of a crystal clear, unique, are-you-human voice that can interpret music. You can do that. I cannot.
I don't know how to dance ballet. I even find it hard to reach my feet in an upright position, for Christ's sake. I do know how to dance, but I have to learn the steps before I can make you proud in the dance floor.
I don't know how to write from the heart anymore. I can't fiddle with words with you anymore.
I am a mediocre quarter-of-a-life old lady who struggles with myself.
I can't even.