My birthday is coming soon. I remember when birthdays were exciting. Now they're something more dreary, a day to remind you of all the things you haven't accomplished yet and probably never will.
But if you're feeling so keen as to make the illustrious day of my birth a tad bit more exciting, here is a link to my wishlist.
I remember when I had more things to say. When words would seem to flood out of me, coming out of my fingertips onto the keyboard. When my hand would furiously scribble words onto the pages of notebooks and in the margins of books. But now it seems that my mind has devolved into vast space of off white emptiness. A wasteland where creativity was once cultivated in fecund grey matter.
Was it the years that have beat me down, or was it what I've experienced that has rendered me almost mute? Can trauma do that? can trauma silence you? Is that yet another thing my past tormentors have taken from me? My voice? My self?
Now, onto less melancholic and oppressive things...
You know, I think I look pretty good for being 10 days away from turning 34. I must clutch onto this image of youth until my knuckles turn white.
