Age is a nebulous thing, brimming with the momentous beauty of life and the grim countanace of death. Another moment lived, yet another moment closer to the end. Pages turning, fires burning, loves to be loved and lost and forgotten.
Seventeen is supposed to be the age of falling into place, of putting the final touches on the masterpiece that is you. It is supposed to be this daring step closer to adulthood and step away from childhood. It is supposed to be the age where you are entrusted with maturity, set free into the world to learn to walk with wobbly legs and start to run.
For me, seventeen is terrifying.
It makes me question who am, and how I have let the years twist me.
It makes me feel the wieght of every second I've ever lived.
It makes me wonder how much time I've wasted.
It seems so young. So innocent, but not as raw as children. Young enough to understand. Young enough to be reckless. Young enough to have to make moneumental choices, but young enough to have them not matter in the long run.
How many things have I done for the last time? How many things have died, in this ever turning world of mine? How many things have I ripped apart and replaced with something I pretend to call maturity? How much have I kissed goodbye, by being seventeen?
What wiil I face, as seventeen? How will I face it?
I am the oldest I have ever been in this moment. When I read it next, I will be even older. I look in the mirror. Do I recognize who I see? The girl wearing my face?