My birthday was June 4, making me 24 years of age, smack dab in the middle of the confusing, mind-boggling and epic world of the 20-somethings.
It also left me feeling bereft of something.
It also left me feeling panic-stricken, paralyzed that basically one quarter of my life is gone.
My Facebook timeline alerts me daily in real time: of acquaintances, ex-classmates and old friends dealing with weddings, births, moving, leaving the state/country, buying houses, and death. Life is short.
But first, I have to start small. Little things in life are the best: my husband buying me roses and cooking me birthday dinner, a small group of friends choosing to spend time with me on my birthday, my mom leaving me a birthday voicemail and having my little brother sing happy birthday to me in the phone (I hit 9 on that one, to save forever).
Birthdays are an intense, quiet struggle of the mind. It faces the grim reality of the loss of one year of life and the gain of another. That chattering chasm in-between the minute you are 23 and the minute you are not. any. more. you are hyper-extended, teeter-tottering on the edge of time, a delicate balance.
The fresh textured white of a canvas, ready to throw paint on its stretched surface, ready for anything.