This is the last day of a wonderful summer. Starting today and now and at this point in time, I am leaning, careening towards adulthood, towards a future I am forced to control.
Today, I am sixteen and have a very shaky concept of "the rest of my life." I project my wants and wishes to a November visitation that will never come--and I'm tired. I am very, very tired. That's the keenest concept I have of a future: this unending exhaustion, beginning even before the year.
And yet (here a joint composition of past and future) I haven't quite yet hit the point of hopeless. But soon.
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