I’ve been meaning to write something about turning twenty four. I actually wrote a couple of sentences, all of which ended up deleted. There is something weird about this age. It is not a turning point. It is just a year, like any other year. Nothing special. No fireworks, no sparks, no noise. One year away from being alive for a quarter of a century.
It is weird, not knowing how to feel about getting older. At twenty four, I still do the same mistakes I did when I was fourteen. I still paint my nails black. I still fall in and out of love, without having a mere grasp of control over my emotions. I still don’t know my stand on several issues like the existence of God, my future career plan, whether gay people make good parents, whether or not I am alcoholic, the veracity of fate, or the color of my hair.
At twenty four, I still have no idea what I want to do when I become old.
At twenty four, I am afraid I became too old, not to know what I want from this thing called life.
The Licentiam - Five poems about fiancée here at The Licentiam, an awesome zine for experimental erotic work.
6 days ago