c. rose

i found a silly plaque while thrifting some time ago that says “it takes a long time to become young.” it hangs on the wall across from me as i lay in bed now, writing this. it’s kind of funny to realize the truth in that statement, as i reflect back on the tendencies of my teenage self; plagued by the desire to be a clean slate, i surrounded myself with various shades of grey and forbade myself from owning anything that looked out of place. now, as i lay in bed on my phone at twenty-one years old, in a bedroom full of knick knacks and silly thrifted plaques that make me happy, browsing online for a brightly-colored backpack to go with my brightly-colored water bottle, it makes more sense than it ever has. i was never a clean slate, and i never will be—i’m stained bright with the colors of the experiences that have gotten me to where i am now, and i can only imagine what a beautiful canvas that must be. i have somehow grown back into a version of me that never was but always should have been, and i feel so irrevocably myself.