As my 32nd. birthday draws nigh, a proclivity to reflect on the past year’s eventuation (and at times, the lack thereof) has arisen and with it an almost desperate desire to do right by my self. My salad days, though still in sight are brusquely scudding by in rear view. I am reluctant to err further in my life as it can only be chalked up to my being a prize dolt as opposed to one wallowing in the luxury of youthful folly. Egad.. It seems like only yesterday that I was sitting pretty on 29’s perch & deliciously impervious to the daunting ascent ‘over the hill’ that I would unceremoniously embark upon that was turning 30.
Fast forward to two years later & there is a marked absence of all anticipatory, gung-ho feelings that colored the dawning of each birthday of the yesteryears. Instead, quid pro quo is its anti-thesis- an overwhelming sense of foreboding borne out of a painful awareness of ‘stills’ & growing older.. like I am still a proletariat.. or how about the fact that I am still stricken with bouts of mental angst leftover by the fug of the past’s vicissitudes.. or still trifling the days away on love’s stoop, waiting for the big ‘un & our “happily ever after” to begin. As I ponder the syntactic of the subsequent sentence I am peering gloomily at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at my cheeks & making unnatural faces in a shallow endeavor to recapture a more aesthetically pleasing appearance and even fervidly hoping to happen upon an epiphany that would sate my troubled mind. Nothing. It is now incumbent upon me for my own sanity’s sake to muster the fortitude to cherish even a sliver of hope that kismet has yet to bestow on me, its best. On vile days it is this simple belief that will keep me, keeping on. Today is one of those days.
There is within the innermost recesses of my psyche, a tiny ember- a token, mosaic of my most intimate yearnings.. An irrefutable, gentle reminder that I once implicitly believed in the feasibility of anything. That I was not always a ruddy cynic. I hear a faint whisper permeating the wistfulness… I will do well to remember that birthdays mean that especial time that I could tuck happily into that chocolate cake, that I could acknowledge with pomp “You’ve come a long way, baby” (à la Virginia Slim ;), that b-days are meant to be peppered with shenanigans that are as timeless and acceptable at any old age (no pun intended), that a new year is about to unfurl & a resolute will to make the best of the rest of my life is only but a resolve away..that birthdays are a magical time, when wishes are made and forlorn hope tossed to the curb. Amidst the tumult of the Pandora’s Box that is my mind, my wish as I snuff out the merry little flicker of a b-day candle is quite simple- my wish is to regain that sublime perception of life, to just be happy no matter what the morrow may bring.
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