FOUR MORE HISTORICAL SHOTS.

 I’m 20. The Algorithm is Still Loading.

I am 20. Suspended between past and future, a half-formed hypothesis waiting for proof. In another decade, I might be a father—wild, isn’t it? The idea that in ten years, I might be the one answering questions instead of asking them. But what do I know? I still haven’t figured out whether I want to be the father or the child. At 10, I had no such existential dilemmas. I was reckless in the best way possible—curious, honest, mischievous. I wasn’t weighed down by overanalysis, responsibility, or the slow realization that time is running out. Fear, then, was simple: the dark corner of my room, the possibility of losing a Pokémon battle, or the thought that the ice cream truck might run out before I got there. Now, fear is abstract, omnipresent. It’s the economy, it’s the job market, it’s am I making the right choices?

At 10, I used to sit with my father, running my fingers over geography maps, lost in the wonder of places I had never seen. We talked about civilizations, lost empires, the rise and fall of nations. I would ask endless questions—Who lived here? Why did this kingdom disappear? My father always had an answer. Now, at 20, our conversations have evolved into debates about Indian elections, economic cycles, and who the next Prime Minister might be. We talk about inflation and GDP growth instead of the Silk Road and Marco Polo. Time changes. I am changing. But sometimes, I hear my 10-year-old self whisper: Stay. Stay here just a little longer. If you leave too fast, you’ll never figure out what I already know.

That kid didn’t know Bob Dylan. Didn’t know that the answer is blowin’ in the wind. His favorite song was I Have a Dream by ABBA. Cute. I’ve since upgraded to movie soundtracks, orchestral swells that make my life feel more cinematic than it actually is. He would have chased Radkolian mysteries across maps, looking for forgotten treasures. Now, I just want to see Virat Kohli bat one more time. He thought 13 was the perfect age to become a father. I, at 20, am still trying to figure out how to properly fold a bedsheet.

That boy didn’t know Paul Atreides or his realization that fear is the mind-killer. Fear this, fear that. But fear, I have come to understand, is also a portal. It lets me exist as both the child who didn’t worry and the adult who overthinks. I am not Boletarius, but fear is all we have now. Silence. Lisan al Gaib.

So here I am, stuck in a system that never sent me the user manual. My 10-year-old self? He had big plans. By 20, he thought I’d be an astronaut, an archaeologist, and possibly a superhero—all at once. Reality, however, operates on a different frequency. The world is an absurdist joke so cruel even Camus would have raised an eyebrow.

At 10, I played Age of Empires and built fictional civilizations. At 20, I pretend to understand global markets while some Twitter finance bro tells me I should have invested in Bitcoin instead of Hot Wheels. You can be anything! they say, while my student loans ensure that I can, in fact, be nothing.

If I want meaning, I could write poetry—except poetry now competes with 10-second reels captioned “deep vibes.” If I want escape, I could delete social media—except solitude is now a luxury brand, marketed through mindfulness apps with monthly subscriptions.

And so I stand at the threshold of something—adulthood, reality, the point of no return. But in the back of my mind, my 10-year-old self is still whispering. Stay. Stay just a little longer. Maybe he knows something I don’t. Maybe the answer really is blowin’ in the wind. Or maybe—just maybe—there was never an answer to begin with.

by: Vaibhav Vedhase Upadhyay.