The girl turned sixteen today, a commercial creation of adulthood and alliteration for the sake of profit and partying.
But hey, cake tastes good.
I am the last of my friends to reach this landmark, to schedule my permit test at the DMV and to say “thank you” to all of those birthday wishes from strangers that are more or less empty.
I feel no different. Still naive and kissless and an early bird poet.
I see my hourglass clock, the sand sifting through as another year passes with goals floating in the wind, not to be seen again until the next year.
So that stops, and I’ll start now.
I want to write less about myself and more about the worlds in my head; to be a true writer rather than a diary journalist and to dive into untapped potentials that live in the synapses of my mind.
I want to talk to the people who I’ve admired from afar, to make friends with the intimidating and the lonely and the shy and the underserved. Because I’m neither above nor below them, and life is only so short. They should be at my next birthday party.
I will do my part because my parents always do theirs, and I’ll save up all the money I can so that a higher education doesn’t weigh down on my family like an iron weight does on a fragile pile of souls.
And these are just some ideas for sixteen; I will go where the wind takes me and I will do what the moment suggests. This is a road map of my thoughts, a cartography of mental photographs. I have a feeling it will be a year in its own league.