I started my twenties when I was 23. That was when I quit my banking job (for the first time), slung on a backpack (for the second time) and took off to New Zealand with a girl. I'm still friends with her. She's the one person I can call and talk about karma and love and wishes and hopes and all the mournful things about life that lie still between the pockets of sound and fury we create everyday.
We hiked for weeks in the back country, toasted the orange moon, dove in the Pacific, kayaked through waterfalls and ultimately departed: I for a life of urban jazz and she for the bells of eastern ashrams.
It was the first time where my real self became visible; the clarity I had on the top of mountains vanished when I came down to the cities, to the slow drag of responsibilities - but they're still there, they still shape my actions, like how my shadow shapes my form.
I've never felt as free as I did then. Not when I moved west. Not when I traveled the world with my girlfriend. Perhaps I didn't have responsibilities then. Perhaps I didn't need to care about anyone. It was just the beginning - the thrill of finding out who I am.
I hope my thirties will hang on to that hope: that I can sling on a backpack again, take off, and feel the familiar thrill. I am too much of a realist to think it will happen; but I am hopeful.