Kiana

This past weekend was my birthday. Twenty mother-effin-years, dude. This is the point I’ve dreaded most.

On the morning of my last day of being a teen, full-moon feelings were still welling up in me. I was miserable, “just stay supine for as long you can and stare at the ceiling like it’s some lost lover and see if you fall back asleep” kind of miserable. My grandma wasn’t home at the time, which intensified the feeling of aloneness. It’s a feeling that I do not fully understand. It’s not like I yearn for the physical company of others, it’s more of an empty well sitting in the middle of my chest that cannot be filled—at least not with people’s faux-empathetic efforts, or things, or even binge-watching Friends.

This was a birthday of ordinariness and tiredness. I remember thinking, Oh, so this is how it’s gonna be huh when I felt that the spirit of my birthday wasn’t met with the same grandeur and eloquence as when I was younger and less tired. But it’s fine: I thought of ways of upping my energy level, such as taking a brisk walk under the sun. I wore all white and matched it with rose gold loafers to at least feel OK with the ordinariness, absurdity, even humor of all.

This is how it’s gonna be now; finding ways not to stumble into darkness and despair, and being secure in myself and my dreams. ♦