Five

Of course, this would be the point where I say something profound that rhymes with five.

…

Nothing comes to mind.

Instead, I’ll lament the fact that, in the last 24 hours, I haven’t removed a single item from my list of things to be completed before I leave.

Hey. What do you know? I guess it’s my birthday today (sorry, Jacob, I’m about fifteen hours ahead of you on this one!). God, it came up quick. If only it would go just as quickly. More quickly. It’s already over with, and I’m back to the normal day-to-day routine, glad to have passed another holiday without much mention–

Nineteen just sucks, all around (not to mention that I’ve been 21 for months now, thank you very much!). It’s past eighteen, and with that passing life loses its former youthfulness– (how many classic rock songs immortalize eighteen? by contrast, nineteen?), the age when life was full and exciting and new and passionate and bold and bursting with discovery and heartbreak and love and experience and… And yet it’s not twenty-one, or even twenty– an age to denote a move into adulthood, where life suddenly has gravity and meaning, where your opinions and hobbies and beliefs can actually be attributed to yourself. Where you’re finally on your own, wrenched free from parents, teachers… blah.

So I’m nineteen. Bah. No, I’m twenty. I’m twenty one. I’m a sophomore in college. What-ev. Why should I have to wait until I’m 50 to start lying about my age? I’m as old and as young as I feel, birth certificate be damned. It’s probably just a conspiracy, anyway.

I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to deal with it. I don’t want to have to come to terms with the feeling of loss, and the feeling that I haven’t gained experience instead (William Blake be damned as well!). I don’t want to try to come up with some cute capsulizing statement for the last year of my life, and I don’t want this random-ass day in July to demark the start of another year. Eighteen was a good age. At age eighteen I … (list of non-accomplishments). Now I’m nineteen. At age nineteen I will … (list of aspirations). No. Fuck that. What a silly idea. What narcissism. How much better to proceed with purblind reckless abandon– to go so fast and so hard as to not be allowed to stop and recollect, to not be able to sit back and think about what’s behind, because one is so thoroughly consumed and engaged in what’s to come– survival skills, really. Take your eyes of the path, off the goal, and trip and fall. No, just keep running. Skiing. Pushing. Falling up. Never look back. Never slow down. Never get old. Never grow old…

So don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t do anything. Or if you do call, tell me about the weather. Your brother. The president. Not how old I’m not. Just let me ignore it. That’s all I want.

Speaking of five, that’s the number of hours between now and when I need to get up. So I guess I’ll be going. Maybe I’ll finish A.H.B.W.S.G. tonight. Probably not.

Five.