I interrupt the onslaught of travel posts to present you with a wall of incoherent text. Ok, go.
August 17 was my birthday; I turned 19. I’ve always had an odd relationship with the concept of a birthday. There’s this weird self-consciousness and hyper-self-awareness that has always dictated my life. On one hand, receiving attention and facebook paragraphs that stand in as birthday wishes make my head bubble and fizzle like a glass of champagne. But I hate acknowledging that birthdays seem inherently important to me because I shouldn’t need this pampering attention or bask in it either. Why do I keenly yearn for an instant-gratification-esque form of human attention?
But I digress.
It is 3:36am. I need to count my blessings!
This year, my dad wrote me a card/letter for my birthday. This is special because I’ve never received a card from my parents before for any sort of occasion. I just want to………….my heart is just………I am just incredibly thankful for my parents. I am learning every day what unconditional love means and what kindness and patience look like. In 2017, we love unapologetically and convey how much we appreciate others’ love loudly and clearly.
But I don’t want to grow up.
When did I transition from a bouncy, annoying pre-tween who practically prayed to blossom into adulthood into a jaded, old, misanthropic grandma? I like being young. I like reminiscing about my childhood. I like the past.
I have been rifling through old letters and cards and mementos that I stuffed in a paper bag throughout high school. Isn’t it weird how these little pieces of paper carry so much personal significance? This tiny college-ruled paper changed my life and viewpoint. And this wrinkled card earthquaked my heart and pulled me back to earth. These snapshots of time are so valuable to me…they preserve all the scenarios and circumstances surrounding each letter, and I hardly recognize myself anymore in those times. The shitty thing is that it all seems so sweet and fragile and perfect, these perfect amber casts of the past. Why did I (time?) have to go and ruin things? I never even asked to grow up.
So tonight, I feel strange. I feel lonely, melancholic, nostalgic, and indignant. Indignant of change and dynamism and letting go of the past. And I’m 19. I’m (practically) an adult, so I will be as childish and ridiculous as I so please today (and maybe tomorrow).