My father said to me in the car today how 17 was a bit of an in-between sort of year- no longer Sweet Sixteen, and not quite the 'adult' we will become in...Oh, let's say 365 days and 2:20 hours.
My friend is scared of 17- although she is already 17 and seems to be dealing quite nicely. I always told her this was absurd and that although it was strange and a little frightening to be thinking of the places we could, will, and won't be in the next 2 years, we'll always make it. But things change, on the eves of birthdays, I think. I can suddenly step into your world, Hannah...
It seems so strange to think of yourself being alive for so many and so little years- to us, an eternity, but in the grand scope of things, barely a smidgeon in the time lines of history. Every small celebration of another year feels like a milestone. I mean, really- every year, don't we feel the tiniest bit more self-important? More imposing, more...incredible?
But more importantly...17. I can't believe that in two hours, I will never be 16 going on 17 again- not innocent or naive, needing someone to depend on, but rather the other way around. I don't like how 16 is something I will never get back again.
But more importantly...next year, at this time, where will be? What will I be going through? Will I have a plan?
It's the end of an era- and I'm seeing clearer.
I watch my dreams over and over again, in black and white, like an old video recording.
The dreams from last night.
The dreams from four days ago,
6 months ago,
12 years ago.
I eat cereal in the mornings, and wonder how many more mornings will be spent eating cereal and staring off into enraptured silence, in complete loneliness.
I wonder how many mornings it will be until I am feeding my own children cereal.
4 minutes ago, I was in kindergarten, following fairies around the classroom, with free spirit and wings.
I have 56 seconds until I am sliding down that hill.
42 seconds.
As warm, frothy milk spills over the side of the mug slowly revolving in the microwave, I do nothing to stop it. In 2 minutes and 46 seconds, I will have a mess to clean up. I do nothing to stop it.
2 minutes and 46 seconds are spilling over.
24, 989 snowflakes have melted on my tongue in 17 years.
I will graduate in 94 seconds, and have my degree in 54 minutes, and then I will marry a boy and we will watch the ocean steal nine minutes of our lives away.
We will watch 24, 989 grains of sand slip through our outstretched fingers.
In 34 seconds, I will be dead.
I do nothing to stop it.
Time is meaningless.
The dreams from last night.
The dreams from four days ago,
6 months ago,
12 years ago.
I eat cereal in the mornings, and wonder how many more mornings will be spent eating cereal and staring off into enraptured silence, in complete loneliness.
I wonder how many mornings it will be until I am feeding my own children cereal.
4 minutes ago, I was in kindergarten, following fairies around the classroom, with free spirit and wings.
I have 56 seconds until I am sliding down that hill.
42 seconds.
As warm, frothy milk spills over the side of the mug slowly revolving in the microwave, I do nothing to stop it. In 2 minutes and 46 seconds, I will have a mess to clean up. I do nothing to stop it.
2 minutes and 46 seconds are spilling over.
24, 989 snowflakes have melted on my tongue in 17 years.
I will graduate in 94 seconds, and have my degree in 54 minutes, and then I will marry a boy and we will watch the ocean steal nine minutes of our lives away.
We will watch 24, 989 grains of sand slip through our outstretched fingers.
In 34 seconds, I will be dead.
I do nothing to stop it.
Time is meaningless.
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