Coming of age

I woke up. No, I whispered to myself, no. This can’t be true. I spent my whole life trying to avoid this. And the end, I walked right into its arms. I shivered. Why? Why did I even try? I knew it was useless to try to avoid it. It will come one day, today.

Today, exactly 18 years ago, I came crying to this lovely world. Yes, I’m 18. And I don’t feel like I am 18. I didn’t want to be 18.

I hope I was one: I hoped that my parent would sing to me when I close my eyes;
I hoped I was three: I hoped that dad could carry me on his shoulder;
I hoped I was five: I hoped that I could play with my friends all day long;
I hoped I was seven: I hoped that I want to turn 18.

But I don’t. I don’t want to come of age. I stared out of the window: The clear blue sky, the squeaking flying birds, the white, white clouds in the sky.

Maybe it isn’t that bad. I sensed a feeling I never did before. I feel that I weigh ten pounds more, ten pounds of responsibility. And jet I feel light and free. I could fly high up in the sky, to somewhere far, somewhere unfamiliar.

I lay back onto my bed and looked out at the beautiful sky. I smiled. Maybe it isn’t that bad. Happy birthday, I whispered to myself.