Twenty-five today. I made it past the unexpected twenty-one and swiftly made it to twenty-five. I feel old. Intellectually I know it’s not that old but when my sister’s friends view me as someone who should be sprouting white hair and have been married five times… yeah, it feels old.
I’m alive. That still surprises me. It would have been expected for me to die but I’m not. I think I’ll find myself repeating this at every milestone. I’m a quarter of a century, I’m going to graduate university (haha, so late it’s embarassing). I might just have a future.
I’m not sure where the road is leading me.
Moving on. School is proving challenging. About four hundred pages (it seems) of reading for the whole of next week. That’s just one class. I still don’t know what to expect.
I’ve been writing steadily. Prose instead of poetry. Not all with the same idea, the same characters, the same tone. I wrote a story about her and I keep sneaking around when I print it so that it will not be discovered. I know she would be very angry if she knew I wrote a story about her. It’s taken a story I know about her and created my own ideas, my own take, my own ending. It’s not the story, it’s a different carcass on the bones of something that has been secret and shameful. I wish I could do more with it, make it more successful.
