paperback writer
sliding happily into new shoes

"But don't you realize? You're two decades old! That's almost as old as my oldest car!!"
-Kathleen (the first phone call)
It was at a stop light; I was paging through the pictures I'd picked of the last two years in scholars for my portfolio, when Natasha Bettingfield's "Unwritten" came on. It was all so unnecessarily poignant. And you know how wonderful those improbably idyllic movie moments feel.

But it was also a reminder of the earlier conversation touching on our own faces only a year ago... already so different from those we carry now: younger, lighter, more unsure of an open future.

A lot of important things can be lost in a year... people, sleep, brain cells, direction, ideals, innocence. But another year has been gained, and nothing is surprising anymore. For the first time in our lives we feel like adults, and the strangest thing is how natural it all is, because therein lies the realization that people never stop being kids, they just stop being surprised. So twenty just feels right.

And it's only fitting that I spent the entirety of my very last day of nineteen, the year I so dreaded and was proven RIGHT time and time again, in the rain and not knowing my underwear was inside out. Also fitting though, that I spent my first few hours of twenty taking fantastically unattractive pictures and generally acting like a fool with the people I intend on spending my future with.

And if there is anything this karmic supernova that was the numeric combination of 19 and 2005 has taught me, it's that sometimes life explodes but in the end you're still living. And that is the most important/easiest part to forget.

So here's to another year. Of growing.
Because adulthood no longer terrifies me.

I am here, and I am ready. Finally.

The current mood of bratnatch at
FIN. 1:58 a.m., Tuesday, May. 09, 2006

ink :: graphite

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A work in Aberration.