20

I turn 20 tomorrow. In this new house, new room, same people. I’m tired of same, I don’t know which is worse – stagnation or change.

I hear people talking in the hallway. I could never do that in the old place – secluded, kept apart in my own hallway. Here it is all thin walls and conversations landing on top of each other.

I feel held in the wood of the house. I feel worried about falling asleep tonight. Today, these days, I feel it all.

I remember the apartment in Paris where I turned fifteen. Walking around the cold pale blue of the middle of the night in a thin white tshirt. Feeling the window, the sink, feeling each moment like gravity. an aging that is nothing like moving forward and all about looking back. Fingertip tracks left in the dust of nostalgia.

The dresser creaks in the corner of my room – old wood from my grandparents’ farm in Canada. Five years and I am still heavy in thoughts of a past and a future that don’t come together in clean seams.

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