I'm not old.
I'm immature.
Senseless and careless.
Full of faults that I constantly trip over.
And devoid of cracks that aren't hairline fractures.
I'm young.
Afraid to live.
And afraid to die without growing out of the youth I now own.
I am young and old.
Fragile with uncertainty.
Yet strong with determination.
Or not really.
Maybe foolish with hope and too doe eyed to see it.
Maybe too young to understand that life isn't a game actually meant to be won
but one which is endured.
Like tomatoes ripened in the sun.
Maybe I'm not old enough to be bottled and sold.
Maybe I'm fresh fruit.
Picked from a vine and placed in a barrel.
Aged slowly and sweetly.
Future red wine.
But for now.
Young grapes.
In a process.
Unripened.