Growing Up

It's the strangest thing. Years pass, your date of birth gets further and further from the present, you're expected to act the number that represents you and all the dreams you once had for your 'future' turn put to have been just that... dreams.

It's funny. I remember the thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and fears and joys of five-year-old me like I had them just yesterday. I remember the childish mentality I adopted so carelessly back then. I remember the things I did and why I did them. The justifications I had back then still make sense now in my teenage mind - one, since these innocent childhood days, has long been subjected to pain and heartbreak.

So it's funny. Age is funny. 'Acting your age' is a phrase I admittedly don't understand. If the thoughts I had way back when still make somewhat sense to me, yet I acknowledge they would be unthinkable for someone my age, why do I find it do incriminating to even have them cross my mind? Yes, I was scared of teenagers when I was five, and now I am a teenager, afraid of adults and the baggage that comes with them - some of which I already, unfortunately, possess.

Age is a strange thing. One that beckons me towards an eternal fear and sadness. Not that I don't want to get older - I do - but I don't want to lose even more of my innocence and naivety. The more circumstances one is subjected to, the more their blind optimism and fearlessness is etched at. Soon it will no longer exist. I'm sure. Soon, I will be even more jarred than I already am. I will be more shattered. I will broken up in an even bigger set of pieces. It will hurt more. Or less? Perhaps experience will breed immunity?

Who knows...