benumb; verb, [bih-nuhm]
- to make numb, deprive of sensation.
- to render inactive; deaden or stupefy.
I’m doing it! I’m growing up! I’m nineteen!
Oh. Oh god. Oh my god. I’m nineteen.
Yesterday I spent time browsing through unsottovoce in an effort to treat homesickness (an effort that ended up backfiring). Looking back at those posts, I won’t deny cringing at thematical cliches and loud attempts at being profound, but I also admire the courage I put into writing nearly every day and making an effort to think about subjects beyond the thresholds of my cramped little brain. For example, from “Time’s Arrow“:
It’s terrifying because sometimes I imagine that my memories will be dull and grey and listless when I grow older. That’s when the other voice, the stubborn voice, comes and gives a good whack in the head. Perhaps it’s inevitable, but you still have the harder option. You can still try. Try to live so that your memories are vibrant and moving and rich. Try to get a little drunk on life.
Try to trust your stupid fucking heart.
And from “Mud-Splattered Shoes“:
I guess what I’m trying to say is this: there is something oddly wonderful and sad in that while we all share emotions and events and time, our experiences are very much our own, and all we can give are little capsules of memory tucked into stories, and while those stories can blossom into vivid, winged ghosts, they are split two ways—one half as a mirror, the other as a one-way glass, tinted, filtered.
And from “death & co.“:
and yet… balance. one of the great wonders, and one that should be taken seriously —life comes with death, as light comes with darkness. it’s the most frustrating and gorgeous piece of work in this cosmos. perhaps that comes with living—we must constantly struggle and fight between two ends—and from that, we learn, time and again, that maybe the question of life and death is unanswerable. perhaps the beauty is that we never stop asking it.
I don’t know, it’s just… I can’t believe I wrote all of that. I’m so, so lucky. I guess I really was living in every sense of the word—thinking about emails from friends, past selves, acne scars, the Orlando shooting, remembering feelings, Miyazaki films, Frank Stanford, celebrity deaths, sidewalk flowers.
All this, said and done, and still I have a vibrant and blazing world to discover and rediscover. I’m already nineteen years old. I’m only nineteen years old.
“And miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.”
(Blatantly avoiding the topic of election results because it’s been overwhelming and I just need something to celebrate. Yet despite this Next Big Thing looming over our heads, life goes on, and we will get through this together).