just write it down

I don’t feel 31, I feel 16 still. I don’t know how I got here with all these things that I own and I just have them? It’s weird to look around knowing I’ve accumulated all of it but not remembering how. Or when.

I couldn’t tell you the day I got older or when my wrinkles sunk deep enough for me to notice. I don’t know when I went from immature teenager to scowly faced adult but I did and I have to consciously undo my face all the time. I long to be immature again. I want to be soft and kind and blind to the world. But I’ve seen it and lived it and unfortunately there is no going back.

I am 31, whether I recognize it or not. Time has not been warped but rather ticked as it should. And there is nothing left for me to do but be thankful for all this stuff that is mine and for my wrinkles and bitterness. It was in the gathering of those things that I’ve loved and lived and cried myself to sleep.