It is my birthday today, 4/21.
And I dread it every year—somehow, I wish for time to move swiftly, but when it does, I despise the coldness of it.
I loathe knowing that I’m getting older, that times are changing.
That I won’t be the same person I was last week, and I won’t be the same person I was five seconds ago.
And you won’t be either.
We’ve known forward, we’ve known backward—but what of now?
Of our propelling into it, hoping we’d maybe, just maybe, make it out just right on the other side?
Blindly balancing on a beam, a blindfold covering our terrified eyes—our hands outstretched into the hope we hold so close in our hearts.
That hope that the uncertainty of tomorrow will surmount to the greatness we thought our future would be.
But then again, a birthday is just another day, isn’t it?