The drip drip drip of the Nespresso machine keeps me company. I watch the brown pool rise and rise, filling my cup. I take a sip, flinch unconsciously. It is bitter and scalding. The cool foam coats my top lip. No one is awake. It is 4am. I shouldn’t be awake. Still, I am. I will be nineteen in nineteen days.
This is not how I imagined my nineteenth; though my birthdays never really go the way I expect. This is not how I imagined this month, this year. There are worse things than being homebound; there are also better things. I am trying to reconcile the existence of the two.
I am lucky enough to be (almost) nineteen. To be safe To be healthy To have a home To have a stable family income
I am unlucky enough to be (almost) nineteen. To be mentally ill To be isolated To feel useless To have a family spread thin
The two can coexist. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to see this.
In nineteen days, I will be nineteen. Few people will know unless I tell them. There are bigger things to consider in the world. There are smaller ones too. I lie somewhere amid it all. I am just a girl— a faceless, healthy girl— amid a world of strife. The sun will rise, I will turn nineteen, and it will set; I doubt I will feel any different. The world will keep turning, with or without me. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to recognize this. Quarantine has provided me a bit too much time for introspection, I think.
My coffee is finished. The brown drops on the cup’s bottom resemble a smile. I am lucky enough to notice this.
been thinking a lot about the nature of existing in such an uncertain time. the world keeps spinning, even when it feels like it shouldn't. I'm not quite sure yet how to feel about the constance of mundanity; I don't know if there's a particular way I should feel.