10/05/2022
"I used to think I'd be done by twenty || Now at twenty-nine, the road ahead appears the same || Though, maybe at thirty, I'll see a way to change" πͺ
10.5.22
Turning thirty this November should express a hundred or perhaps a thousand feelings in my chest. Instead, time feels syrupy, the inertia of each day gathering moments like dew on grass blades. But dew is fleeting too.
I suppose thirty felt resoundingly more intense for Mitski (a SUNY girl), having launched so intensely as this collegiate ingenue. Jesus died at thirty-three. Alexander breached beyond Macedonia to the world by 20.
I still don't know what I want to do.
Tonight's pink-orange-dark blue sky lasted not even a half-hour. I watched it set outside the Park Avenue bodega, broken focus by light of my phone, as it cast shadows on the intersection. A car played motown.
I'm glad I saw it alone, still 29 years old. Time is syrup. Tapped and tapping.