I wonder how it will be when we’re thirty or forty or even seventy. I wonder what life will be when we’re all settled down. Some of us will have kids – families. Some of us will still be the same, just slightly more tired. I wonder what will happen to the most ironic generation on Earth. I wonder what will happen to us when we grow up, or maybe we have, and it will be the same – just more and less – until we die.
I wonder if we’ll remember the kisses which we forget every six months. I wonder if we’ll remember the nights we don’t today. Perhaps, those of us with kids will tell them about our escapades and adventures when they’re of age. Perhaps, some of us will still be making stories. Maybe, some of us will die early. Maybe, we’ll sing songs about how all of us were drunk for the most of it because unfortunately for the planet, and fortunately for us, the planet was as confused as the largest age group of homo sapiens inhabiting it.
Perhaps one day, when we’ve lived years equal to how old we’re now, we’d tell someone half of our age about how fucking fantastic it was, and oh, what a ride. We’d tell them about the affairs, and the parties, and the constant state of despair where all of us were artists on Instagram, and none of us were. Maybe then, we’d remember this letter to our youth.
We’d tell them how all of us woke up every day and got out of bed intending to save the world. We’d tell them how by nine-fifteen in the morning, we’d give up on our quests, and hope we at least saved ourselves. We’d tell them how much of art we loved, and how much of it we made, and how much of it got unnoticed every day. We’d tell them we still enjoyed all the art, and we listened to everything, and we watched everything, and we read everything. We didn’t care, and we had no taste. The idea of taste was dead.
Maybe, we’d go down as the most beautiful generation, and maybe our stories will burn brightly like a flame. Perhaps, we’d go down as the worst – the dazed – who burned in their own agony which was either talked about all the time or never talked about at all. If everyone was suffering, no one was, right? In any case, we’ll be the brightest speck in history. The generation that burned the brightest. Burned with what, you ask? Only time will tell.
Maybe one day, when we’re older, and we’ve lived more years than we’ve spent on this planet, and hoping that the planet still exists, and hoping that it lets us live, we’ll be able to say – oh, what a time it was, and oh, I was in my 20s in the early 2000s, and oh, it was the dullest party of all mankind, but oh, it was a party every day, and life was bittersweet, yet beautiful, and no one knew what they were doing, but we were so good at it, and it was so much fun, and oh, I wish you could’ve seen, and oh, I wish you could’ve been there. It was a day every day, and at some point, we stopped weighing the good and the bad ones. It was a party; life was a party.
I wonder if it’ll be that way. I really wonder about that sometimes. I wonder if we’ll remember the confusion. I wonder if we’ll remember anything, or if we’d want to forget about it all – the lovers, the nights, the adventures, the mishaps, the days and the lives we led. I think I’d want to talk about mine. Would you?