Twenty - Four

I have been 24 years old for exactly a week now. With each year we gain, we always expect some sort of miraculous change on the day of our birthday - at least I do. Which is why I wore a tiara and a white gown, like my own feature of Cinderella.

I don’t quite know myself yet. Maybe this will change, like a Joni Mitchell song. I feel that with each age I will sympathize with new artists. Like how I never really understood Bob Dylan until now, all the depth behind that raspy voice and cutting phrases. He, so cool, made people feel like they were five steps behind.

I think I became a sort of Bob Dylan in love, in life. I expect all of life to participate in my artistic Mood for creation. It must mould to my whims and bring me some aesthetic inspiration. The only true performance worth watching is the actor who fulfills the destiny of every line, wholly. My muse.

I hope to be better at holding my pen, holding my head high. I am desperately looking forward, clawing my way towards happiness.

What on earth does it mean to be 24?