The age where everything is both ending and beginning.
No longer a child, but not quite yet an adult.
We are in limbo.
They say I have a way with words, but I am so often lost for them. Where must my place in the world be? And do I truly have a choice in the matter?
Do I have to be a Mother and Wife?
Is it so wrong of me to instead want to analyse the ideologies of Marx and Kant? Or better yet, form my own, for other men and women to criticise? Should I be pondering over boys and makeup instead of immortality and power struggles between classes? I don't think I could stop myself even if I tried.
Where do I see myself in seventeen years? I don't know. Nor do I want to.
I can barely keep up with myself these past seventeen years.
A peculiar age that has left me wondering "what if?" and "when will?".
That's what seventeen is. Just trying to keep up with the rest of the world, and finding your own place in it.