Your 20s have to be your most haunted years, not just because of the young-adulthood purgatory of being an almost-adult who tries to accept the realities of death and taxes, but also the need to put the naiveties of childhood to rest (I’m floored to think we’re closer to the year 2030 than 2020) so we can take on the burden of becoming. How simple it was to fear monsters under the bed, ghosts in the closet peeking at you, blurred shadows caught in the corner of your eye, or to feel that something other than your harmlessly nosy relatives is watching, lurking. I live for the spooky season—the macabre and moodiness—because life is absurd with so much to be wary of, and dramatizing everyday fears with the supernatural simply celebrates life for what it is — everyone is scared to turn the corner, not knowing what will jump out.
I’m certain that Halloween and these fear factors are cathartic because we can finally name the shared and evolutionary triggers that make our hearts race — the privacy of what makes us feel vulnerable translates into the mystique of slashers and masquerades. No matter how old we get, the boogeyman continues to crop up in the background, but no longer as a masked villain. Sunday scaries of life creep in, and I truly wonder if it’s too much to ask for: having a stable and fulfilling career, a down payment on a house with a porch, a big dog and a small cat that are in love, and retirement in the autumn mountains with bustling holiday gatherings. I begin to daydream in the middle of studying for a pretty important exam, then these premonitions transform into whispers of doubt when I look at the work ahead. I’m scared these seemingly basic hopes and dreams will become ghosts of the life I wanted, but there’s so much thrill in thinking that every day is one step closer to pulling the sheet off this cliché ghost constantly sitting and waiting in the corner of my eye.
Being scared means that you care. I’m trying my best to lean into the uncertainty, because it would be my personal nightmare to stay in my comfort zone and watch time slip by. With the end of midterms and a lull in workload, I strolled through uptown Bloomfield and Garden streets to see the Halloween stoop decor. I was in awe, beaming at the intricate recreations of Beetlejuice scenes and skeleton choreography that cast the sidewalks in a purple and orange glow. A stoop owner with a spooky, web-covered display mentioned how he just loves the tradition and takes pride in the extravagance of the unspoken friendly neighborhood competition. This mini Hoboken Halloween town transported me to a reality of incantations and eldritch horrors that welcome my snowballing worries with open arms.
