Twenty-One, piloting the rest of my life

Maybe our twenties should feel just like the Twenty One Pilots songs we listened to at sixteen: overblown synths deepened only by the heavy bass of our pubescent angst.

When I was sixteen, the choruses echoing from my mom's beat-up Lexus blueprinted the life I had imagined for myself when I was "older." Wildest Dreams set the backdrop for a future where love wasn't rare and finding your person didn't encompass twelve failed dates on Hinge.

Now that I'm twenty-one, Twenty One Pilots and their Tumblr-era counterparts still cast shadows over my life. Except now, I can pull up a weathered stool at bars I could only dream of at sixteen. Dark Horse crescendos across my pleather top and onto the rim of my Guinness before dissolving amongst the foam.

I join the rattling metal of the subway car where Sabrina Carpenter's Thumbs ricochets between tired commuters and hooks into the rhythm of the tracks.

Peeling away the curtains of my apartment unveils my middle school iPhone background while Empire State of Mind pings between the emerging stars.

"These streets will make you feel brand new
Big lights will inspire you."

And just like that, I am no longer sixteen chasing Twenty One Pilots lyrics down back roads hoping my dream life was there waiting for me at the next turn.

Since then, the speakers of my mom's Lexus have retired to scrap metal alongside what was left of my adolescent certainty.

Now, I am simply twenty-one, piloting the rest of my life.