I was awoken last night with a pit in my stomach. An unavoidable feeling of emptiness. As I lie curled up in my twin bed I realize I am stuck at home like a tightly fitted shirt I’ve outgrown. A month from now I will turn 18 which will mark the end of my childhood. It’s as if this has all only been the practice round and now I get a chance to really live rather than just exist. So here I am at the starting line, holding my position, anticipating the journey but no one is pulling the trigger, so I’m stuck. The same day continues on a loop and all the strings that keep me grounded and attached untethered. As I look the other way days and weeks are made up of these fleeting moments I can’t seem pin down. I had this plan to go out with a bang, like a song that swells at the end of a movie or a last line of a book that just stays with you. I know it’s cheesy but I like that shit, it’s nice to gaze into the future as though it’s where you’re meant to be. The problem is now I am no longer consumed by this ending but rather the space where it should be. There’s no final bow or cap to throw just a book with torn out pages and a puzzle with missing pieces. It’s not the ending that scares me, it’s all the things that didn’t end.
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