The years of playing sleepover in the parents' house are ending rapidly
I must now grow up.
I am no longer a young child, but an aging kid, growing older and older
until water gun fights and Hello Kitty are no longer acceptable
but creepy, immature,
and unseemly for the candidate of an office position.
The rules of hallways, bell schedules, bathroom passes
are obsolete
in T-minus
how long? Too long? Too soon?
Somewhere in the in-between, if I had to make a publicly educated guess.
What happens when I step off the magic carpet
and into the lecture halls with faceless classmates,
bespeckled, bearded professors
who do not care if success is granted?
Will I fall down those steps?
Will my mind become quick drying cement
rather than glue
and trap all ability to think in the concrete with imprinted initials and cracks with grass growing?
I do not know my own future, and it is terrifying
panic-attacking
stealing my REM and disturbing my circadium rhythm.
All to do now is sit, and wait
for fate to catch up with my worries.