Supposed To Be

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I hate the idea that we’re supposed to do certain things with our lives. We’re supposed to be certain people, say certain things, get certain jobs, and be with certain people. It’s not usually said aloud, it’s just…there. That idea of Supposed To Be.

Where did it come from?

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As she lies in the sterile hotel room the morning after her wedding, she feels a suffocating panic creeping in. It’s done, she’s here. She’s got a ring on her finger and a respectable husband in her bed. Forever. She’s everything everyone wanted her to be. One day they’ll have children and her mom will brag about them to everyone. She’ll have a white kitchen and an herb garden in her backyard. She’ll wake up every morning to him. Yet, the lingering question remains. Is this it? Am I done? Is this all I was supposed to do?

He sits on the worn couch in another dark basement at another drunken party. He’s become bored of it, of them, but he keeps going anyway. He holds his solo cup, inhales his shit, and leans on the girl next to him. She’s talking about something she thinks sounds deep, but is actually sort of stupid. As he looks around the room he wonders if anyone there is happy. What is the point of this gathering? Is this as fun as life gets? He fakes an interested nod, and says something meaningless. He wants to be the guy his friends call on Friday night. He should probably get drunk. What’s the alternative?

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As I sit at an office desk in the company I always wanted to work for, I realize it’s not that I wanted to be here at all. I thought I had to be, or else I wouldn’t be doing what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I had to get good grades, get into a good school, choose a path and stick it out. All so I could be here. Wherever this is. Four walls, a brown square desk, an uncomfortable chair, and a computer. I sit, staring out a little window that faces other little windows, all stacked in rows on another corporate wall. Who is looking out the other office windows? Why did we all become the same?

DeathtoStock_Medium8Everything has been a step on a staircase that we had to climb to reach the top. Now I don’t remember what lies at the top or why we wanted to get there. I don’t think any of us knows. We just keep telling each other, and telling our children, to strive for it. Whatever it is. A house, a job, a husband, children, money, sex, love. All the ideas of Supposed To Do, Supposed To Have, and Supposed To Be. I hate it.

 

By Ashley Foy // featuring photography from Mayuri Paranthahan



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