I don’t know exactly when the switch took place. Don’t know the age I punched when celebrating another year around the sun started to feel more like an obligation to take measures than a party. Maybe it was seventeen, the one after he died. Maybe “its been” loss and bereavement and the relevant recommendations that even the good minutes would ever come with a stab of what used to be. Or maybe it was just growing up. Inevitable, really.
I don’t know if I feel this more and more each year because women have been stated to believe our ethic lessens with age. This archaic mentality- that we’re not spring chicken anymore, perpetually failing eggs and vitality and everything anti-aging commodities have committed themselves to bring back. Bounce! Elasticity! We are racing an unbeatable clock that we’ve been forced to look at our entire lives. Even when we don’t want to. There’s always a remember. Are you wedded? Do you want to be? Remember, your birthrate has only one expiration date ! Tick. Tick. Tick.
I don’t know if birthdays detect heartbreaking to me because I’m always a bit pathetic and that’s just the specific characteristics of clinical depression. If I simply carry a degree of vacate that some can’t fully grasp. If perhaps knowing I’m supposed to be happy on a era I’m not ever joyous moves the sadness as bad. Manufactures it feel lonely to not want to join the festivities.
I don’t know if I’m just savor in the middle of my quarter life crisis and it’s hard to see the other side of the passage, even if I know it’s there. Perhaps realise one more time reminds me of things I didn’t get done. Of events I did do. Of concepts I shouldn’t have. Of everything I promised I would.
There’s just so much I predicted I would do.