Tonight I am 26
At a concert
Standing so close to the girl in front of me
I can smell her perfume
And coconut shampoo-
I am swaying with the crowd
And the person next to me
Has an expression of pure joy across her face
Vibrant lights race across the room
Revealing hundreds of people
Who are feeling what I am feeling.
We throw our hands in the air
And allow ourselves to escape reality
For just one night.

Tonight-
I am alive.
We are alive.

Lord grant me the audacity.

To again be a 23 year old marshmallow
Partying every night at the campfire with a bunch of skewers.

The audacity
To feel outstanding
With an underdeveloped frontal lobe
Floating around in cherry bombs and Stroh’s

To survive being invincible and brave and strong enough to make bold and terrible decisions
And blessedly wake to another sunrise

Never grateful to be alive.
******* *****.
How does anyone survive their early 20s.

Sheer audacity.

While they spent a couple years in college learning calculus, I was emotionally imbalanced and so behaviorally challenged.
When I was on meds and learning music, they were learning differential equations, linear algebra, and real analysis.
When I changed majors to philosophy of religion, they were reading hundreds of math papers from journals in grad school.
When I was getting a master's in criminal justice, taking my first statistics course, they were working on their dissertation.
When I was getting an electronics degree, they were getting published and doing research at universities.

After that I started studying physics, then math.
I struggle still to finish basic Calc 2&3 problems, and find it hard to get help with linear algebra.
All I know is that my trajectory is anything but common.
And the way I cover material would not be taught in most schools and universities.
It is more like the Montessori schools: I have an innate path to psychological development, and I act freely, supposedly creating my optimal way.

Why did no one warn us what being in your 20s is actually like?

There are 25 year olds married.
There are 25 year olds just starting their career.
There are 25 year olds living with their parents.
There are 25 year olds with babies.
There are 25 year olds living with friends.
There are 25 year olds in school.
There are 25 year olds buying a house.

There is no rule book.
There is no timeline after high school.

It's daunting.
Some days you may feel behind.
Other days you may feel ahead of the game.

When in reality there is no finish line.
There is no winner or loser.

Just a bunch of kids living life, figuring it out along the way.

Saturday nights.
Early 20s  
In the limbo of wanting to savor my youth, but growing tired of my lack of responsibility.

The other day I looked at some photos,
Memories played before me as if they were live.
How funny the way time moves and the way life goes,
What feels like a day was really 365.

So much can change in a year.
What you want, who you love, what you fear,
365 days can either give or take away all you hold dear.

For me, a year has brought me plenty,
New hair, new friends, another year in my 20s.

But what a year hasn't changed,
Is the way that I feel.
Between you and I, no words have been exchanged,
A year has done nothing, no wounds have been able to heal.

Some nights I'll look again at those photos and still shed a tear.
In time things will get better, check back again this time next year.

My home is a wasteland of cigarette butts and coffee cups
Help in repose for better mornings
Where a bitter taste in my throat lays dormant
And I think alone, in regret of nothing

As fresh *** brews and *** ignite, thumbing my finger ring.
Tracing back words in search for other purpose,
realizing secrets as regrettable burden.
Clear throat for first sip, and light a second cigarette.

It is not insomnia but rather being too bored to sleep.
It is not knowing what to do with your hands
When someone says they love you.
It is wanting to discuss film, art--
Hell, anything, with anyone--
Only to talk yourself down
Before the words escape your throat.
And yes, All the words come from there.
Some guttural utterance only heard for those that care.
That pesters you too.

All the nerves in all the world with all the words,
and there's nothing wrong with them in my head.
Passions intermix and weaken,
with every passing moment of thinking,
So I speak of Russian filmography,
mingle as hands press to small of your back.
In an instant, a stutter, a wide expression.
But my hands were always in my pockets anyway.

"Sometimes the curtains are just blue,"
An old professor told me once
From behind his olive green desk--
In front of a whiteboard that made him look small.
Curled over, I respected him more
For the fact that he knew
Nothing everything has a purpose.

Purpose is as purpose does, "I know I know nothing."
Pretentious is as we may be, sentences full of stuffing.
Like our shirts and puffing chests, teach me like you went to university.
Analyze in caffeinated anxiety every word ever said to me.