people keep telling me to act my age, but there’s this sickening apathy floating around the room. i can only see it out of the corner of my eyes, but it’s cold enough to make my fingers numb. See, i’ve been trying to pick up the potential that’s in front of me, but the future i foreshortened years ago is rearing its head, and the numbness is starting to spread up my arms. i wonder if the pins and needles are age appropriate.

someone told me that the future is bright, but i never actually expected to see it. and now that light is starting to get heavy, i think the apathy might’ve been easier. easier to hold, easier to choke down. easier to figure out. sure, i might be losing feeling somewhere in my chest, but at least there’s no obligation in the apathy. no obligation to act my age. there’s no requirement in the numbness to take up space or make this life great. 

there’s a burning desire to do everything in the world, i think that’s typical of my age. you know, start a hobby, stop a hobby—start a new one. God knows how many worlds i’ve tried to force myself into.

i’m so young! and i’ve got so much capability! and potential! God, here we go again with the potential! certainly it’s my responsibility to do it all, why else would i be drawing in the reminders of my potential and the reminders of my age and the reminders of all the things i can still do. certainly one of these things will take off and do well, certainly something will be worth the price of living. 

i have to make something of myself, it’s my penance for existing. and i’ll find time between the hobbies and the Hail Marys for all the stuff that’s important. God how do i know whats important? how the hell do i choose that? acting my age doesn’t come with the knowledge of what’ll work. how am i supposed to know which things wil make me important?

no one told me that i’d be tired everyday. everyone keeps celebrating my youth, but God youth is exhausting. i’ve been sleeping through everything these days. is this living? this constant bone-deep exhaustion? i need to put away laundry and cook dinner and make myself useful, but ugh, that’s impossible right now. there’s an anvil on my chest, andl like cotton in my head and the thought of trying to get out of bed right now is making me nauseous.

thinking is hard right now, everything is like syrup–slow, sticky, heavy. the only solid thought i’ve had all day is that i haven’t paid the price for today’s living. i think i’ll keep the syrup. i think i’ll stay in bed. days like these, i wonder why butterflies ever leave the cocoon.

i’d like to raise a glass to acting my age. here’s to getting everything wrong and desperately trying to hide it. here’s to getting everything wrong and desperately trying to hide it. here’s to pretending to know how to do taxes and being deathly afraid of running out of time. here’s to never making anything valuable of myself and forgetting to create something that means something. here’s to youth and potential and the human condition. here’s to trying and falling apart. here’s to exhaustion and pride and pain. here’s to you, kid. here’s to me. here’s to acting my age.