Fading Magic

I get very easily disgusted. At things, at myself, at people, at the world in general. Sometimes I don't know what it is that I'm doing here, I want to wish myself away to a world where there are dragons and damsels in distress and wizards and knights and quests and sea voyages and letters in bottles washing up ashore. I'm a romantic at heart... or so I would like to believe, I think. It's hard to be anything but practical today... sadly.

When I was younger, I used to believe in a lot of things. Believe in myself, for one, that I could surpass any hurdle, accomplish feats and conquer milestones. But when you're younger, I suppose it's easier to see yourself up on top of the world. And then, inevitably, the magic disappears. I've wanted to retain it for as long as possible, but now I'm finding myself wondering - does it ever happen? I would love my life to be a fairytale (and if I'm dead honest with myself, a small but still significant part of me is still hoping it is), and yet all I see around me is a rat race to the top positions, a place in the good books to get you favours, a blind gold rush to survive luxuriously, which is becoming more and more a need.

For one, I never used to think about money as much as I do now. It's one thing to be concerned about money running out when you're living alone, but at each and every step? I figure - I'm young right now, I've got my whole life to worry about whether I'm spending too much, I should be having fun right now, within appropriate limits of course. But the very next moment, I'm reminded again of money, those crisp new notes I have taken out from my account and must wisely spend during these two vacation months.

I feel resentful towards my parents when I think about money, sometimes. It was only while talking to them that I learnt about the concept of their not being enough money and overspending. My father never bought anything without shaking his head while taking out his purse and counting out the notes; my parents used to discuss so extensively about how much was in the bank, or rather, how much wasn't.

It's a part of life? I guess. It's funny though, how much I want to control my life but seem to not be. I guess there's even some ... stupid pleasure that I secretly derive out of being miserable. I feel pathetic after I've had my little cry or my internal outburst, but it's a recurring habit.