Well, I’m another full year older.
I’m 25 now, but the only reason I know that is because I had to do the math. I honestly couldn’t remember my age. My mom had to remind me that it was my birthday.
Every single day blurs into the next. Keeping a calendar nearby does nothing to help. I’m too disorganized for a planner. Every day is just another day I’m still living.
It feels weird. It’s like I’m a character in a bad simulation game, and somebody keeps hitting the “respawn” button. I’m not advancing, while also not falling behind. I’m just in the same spot, doing the same things, day in and day out.
Just breathing.
It honestly feels so strange. In school, they always told you to think ahead, plan ahead, predict and create who you want to be in the future.
I was that kid that couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that because I didn’t even know who I wanted to be, what I wanted to do. I was just myself: a bland being that blended into the wallpaper, the backdrop. I was the kid nobody loved and nobody hated. I was the ghost in every class. I wasn’t a star athlete, or the pretty girl, the bad boy, the smoker over in the pit, the nerd, the overachiever, the car stud, the goth chic, the metal head, the band kid. None of it. I was the drifter, the ghost, the nobody.
I didn’t know anything about myself.
And now, years later, I still don’t know. I’m drifting through life, like I did my highschool classes. I’m unsure of the unknown. I don’t have dreams or aspirations or hopes for my future.
I just breathe. That’s all I’ve ever done, because that is all I know how to do.
And I’ve be doing it for 25 years. Or so my mom tells me.
QM
Queer Montague: Oppressed Written Word 