There are some times in life when everybody is starting on the same journey at the same time, some times when you feel like you're the only one. And there are times like now, where I should be starting on the same journey, but for some reason I look around to find myself sitting in the back row, the end car, still stagnant at the top of the climb but watching everyone in front of me plunge headfirst, screaming out with a scared joy.
My bed smells like coffee. Just a little, not enough to taste, but enough to smell like sunshine. My face is puffy from the holes in my gums where, up until this Monday, three little wisdom teeth sat. My best friend (at least, one of them) is gone to another state, and even though I felt like crying when I gave her one last hug for the moment I've realized nothing is really different. My guitar sits next to my bed, neglected for weeks, but the callouses on my fingers are still hanging in there because they know I'll pick it up again soon. My little stuffed ewok is in my lap, staring up at me through the lopsided hole in its cape, a soft reassurance of the things that I will always love, even when I'm not sure if I really do.
And my glasses that at first seemed too big have grown onto my countenance like a vine wrapping itself around a bench that has been established, shielding it with an oldness that cannot be left unaccepted.
My world starts in 17 days.
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