And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,/ She needs not June for beauty's heightening

I turn 18 today. It’s a milestone that the littler ones in the world look forward to with much zest. I don’t remember ever harbouring such eagerness towards reaching this number of years of existence, unlike many people I know who find it thrilling to be able to legally, guiltlessly purchase alcohol. 18 sounds like a significant year in many contexts: it seems to be the gateway into the uncensored world, marked by reluctant nods by the regulator at life’s tollbooth as he waves you on into the alien and treacherous world of purported freedom, hypocrisy, affectation and self-styled maturity.

Reaching the age of legality has a seductive appeal about it. It grants you unrestricted access to places you might have had to sneak noiselessly into, all the while hoping you would be able to abscond quickly into someplace else, where spotting you would be impossible, much less accusing you (accurately) of your wrongdoing. Criminal punishment regulations don’t treat you like a minor. Tobacco and alcohol may be part of your shopping list. A driving licence can finally come your way.

I applaud 18 year-olds’ appetite for adventure. I do not feel any particular urge to celebrate my newly-granted legal maturity. Instead, I hope for wisdom, prudence, judiciousness, patience and a good measure of scepticism that will prevent me from blundering and tripping through life’s obstacle course as though blindfolded and asphyxiated.

I share this date of birth with Clark Gable, Muriel Spark, Boris Yeltsin, Gabriel Batistuta, and in my ACSian circle of friends, Joshua René. The first day of February saw the crowning of the young Edward III as King of England in 1327, the French declaration of war on the United Kingdom in 1793, the publication of the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary in 1884, the premiere of Puccini’s La Bohème in 1896, the post-exile return of Ayatollah Khomeini to Tehran in 1979 and the disintegration of Columbia upon re-entry into the Earth’s atmosphere in 2003, among many other events. National Freedom Day in the USA falls on the first day of February. The seventh day of the Chinese New Year, renri, 人日, the common man’s birthday, happens to coincide with the first day of February this year.

I thank all who have wished me well today.

It’s been a ridiculously hectic first month in Year 6. So far, being on task has been fairly tiring; perseverance has threatened to forsake me in this desert of academic aridity. As the minutes tick by I only feel more enervated, more drained, weary and somnolent. My relief at completing one task is almost instantly, rudely washed away by the urgency of yet another item on the ever-lengthening to-do list. Assignment deadlines are marked nightmarishly close to each other on my calendar, and the upcoming class tests signal impending academic doom. I hope I survive the storm.

Amidst the blizzard of IB-related tasks, I’m glad I’ve managed to set aside time to reflect and turn thoughts over in my head, as if masticating a mouthful of very fibrous grass. I have found myself to be particularly pensive over the past two weeks.

I’ve recently gotten reconnected via Facebook with an old friend from Bishop Cotton Girls’ School in Bangalore, India. Talking to her made hundreds, thousands of memories come pouring back into the now- almost-empty cup of Bangalore memories. I realised my cup of memories is leaking most deplorably; time has blunted the once-sharp edges of many memories that I once vowed would remain forever clear. Even my recollection of the uproarious response to Mr Chia’s attempt at an Indian dance has faded somewhat.

Freshness and clarity of memories are, alas, often parched by time’s propensity to erode and erase even the most focal moments and episodes we step in and out of. It is indeed a pity, but it is also a truth.

The recent months have proven to be pivotal as far as my cerebral, and more importantly, spiritual development is concerned. I daresay I’ve gained a newly-cultivated discernment in some areas. For instance my impressions of people and places have been reshaped by days of interaction, observation, contemplation and deliberation. Some have, over time, proven to be unfortunate let-downs; others have risen from the depths of my own miscalculated judgments to fully earn my veneration.

Contrary to the pessimism my words might be redolent of, I find the mystery shrouding the years of my peripatetic youth rather healthy, and generally quite nourishing. I don’t think that I have squandered my years by being unmindful and overly indiscriminate; an accumulation of unanswered queries provides the basis for my ongoing learning and hopefully, mounting erudition in more than just academic fields.

It is a humbling experience to watch what you took pride in as your cache of general knowledge thaw and melt into a subterranean loch of general ignorance. It is even more humbling to catch yourself being regrettably selfish and so unbearably self-interested.

The world is an insufferably colourful tapestry of paradoxes. 18 years is a considerably extensive road to have travelled, and while I vow to stay on these roads, I know I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.