Keep walking

I’ve been growing my hair, not knowing exactly what I expect it to look like. I don’t really know if I want those bangs anymore, nor the color I’ve been dreaming about, not even that side cut that I desired so much and never got done. I’, letting it grow to see where it goes.

I look at the mirror and see something young about my reflection, my thiner face and that long, messy hair. I see less control. More easiness.

I heard someone say one of these days that they gave up on trying to avoid risks and decided to dive head first in whatever life brings. They said no fear should be stronger than the will to live life to its fullest. Not like a self-help-guru style, but more like those kids in ripped jeans, wounded knees, a scar on the chin and a skateboard under their arms, insisting on learning new tricks just because.

I thought about it a lot, and

I agreed.

You, it’s possible to survive to the floor having  disappeared from under your feet. It happens, and hurts and takes your breath away. But as soon as you manage to control your breath and stop hyperventilating, it becomes clear that moving forward is a viable option. You’re allowed to cry along the way, play some Celine Dion on Spotify, lip dub in the middle of the streets. As long as you keep on going forward.

‘Cause one day something cool comes our way. And I don’t want the fear of getting hurt to be stronger than the will to life intensely. It’s ok to carry on, even when we’re scared, with a band-aid on your elbow and blood stains on your trousers.

A numb, sterilised life is not worth living.

So I let go of this bike brakes little by little, and I’m enjoying the wind on my face and the adrenaline that runs in our veins when we take risks. What’s at the end of this downhill path? No idea. But I don’t really care anymore.

I keep growing my hair.