A thought.

It's not unhealthy to have regrets. I think we often get so pent up with having to appear strong and together that we don't allow ourselves to learn from our hurt, and continue on in the comfort blanket of our repetitive destructive path.

Life is a series of choices: everyone knows this. Invariably, we make ill-informed choices, creating a domino effect. Sometimes, these choices have a way of working themselves out for the best. Unfortunately, we can't have our cake and eat it. There's no restart, respawn or replay. Hindsight is indeed a wonderful thing. 

We are we insistent on not being vulnerable? This mechanism we've evolved that ultimately means we can't admit defeat, or call out our poor choices: because to do so emulates weakness. 

It isn't weak admit defeat. We have to make choices. That doesn't mean you can't immediately make a new one. Cry, wholeheartedly. Respect yourself. Love again. 

Lost in (google) Translation.

I keep finding myself at 1am sobbing into a pack of Minstrels at the sheer sight of Scarlett Johansson looking longingly at Bill Murray.
This isn't a bizarre scenario, and for those who haven't watch it, get educated. Lost in Translation struck a chord, and it's the first film, potentially ever, that I 'got'.

She stares into the abyss of Tokyo from her high rise apartment that she shares with the ghost of a husband. She's young, she's educated. She's lost. She's fucked.

Charlotte isn't a damsel, but she's a prisoner of her own heart. She can't find her place in the world, and she's living the dream of her husband. She married young, settled before her time. She's surrounded by a world of opportunity, none of them for her.

I find myself crying. I'm nearly 21; Charlotte herself no older than 25. We haven't a thing in common: I'm not Scarlett Johansson for a start, with her lips to die for, and husky voice. Yet I feel every tear, every fear, every thought. In a world of endless prospect, I'm struggling to look further than my nose.
I think panic of potential inevitability scare me the most. I love dearly, and deeply. I'd follow, not only because of a fear of loneliness, but the wish to help a SO in their endeavour. I know, that, if asked, I'd put my life on hold. Because like Charlotte, she's doesn't know what she wants to be. She writes, but hates every single word. She takes pictures, mediocre at best.

Even thirteen years on, in the height of technology we experience, we're so lost in the Facebook timeline and Twitter feeds of others, like Charlotte is lost in the miscommunication of Tokyo. I get pangs of jealously when I see others acting upon the repressed wanderlust we all have. I'd do it myself, but I convince myself otherwise. I haven't the time. I'm not brave enough. I'd miss my boyfriend, my friends, my life too much.  All this, I tell myself.

Do we really have a place? Does everyone have a vocation, an impact to make? Do we teach ourselves this extroverted individualism to delude ourselves of purpose?

I'll guess I'll find out.