Eshtine

27

I am at the age now when a lot of rock stars have died, and when other rock stars have created their masterpiece. I wish this year to create something I'll be proud of the rest of my life.
This day six years ago I ate foul-tasting "roast turkey and stuffing"-flavored crisps at a pub in a town south of London and drank my first Guinness (a half-pint, still my limit). I got taken out to dinner and ate lemon syllabub for dessert. I only ordered lemon syllabub because I once read a poem about frogs and snakes, their football teams, and hearing their cheerleaders in a dream:
"'Sisyphus, Sisyphus,' hissed the snake,
'Sibilant, syllabub, syllable-loo-ba-lay.'"
I wish to come to no harm, nor cause any harm to others, if I base my actions on poetry whims.
Back then I wasn't measuring my age against rock stars. I had, however, wanted to be a published author before my 21st birthday. I wanted a hearing for my young voice. There are things people say when they're young which they don't say when they're old. I wish to employ all of it--the language of 7, 17, 27, 37...
Growing up, I always knew. 20 years ago I knew. I knew adults forget what it was like to be a child. Back then you could laugh and cry and not be able to stop until joy or sadness--either one--became hyperventilation. You could carry on conversations with any object which had anything even vaguely resembling a face. You could see a night glow out the basement window and so vividly anticipate the monster you'd be sprinting top speed up the stairs without second thought. I wish to shut none of this away but still have room to store new memories.
While I still could taste all this, I resolved to keep myself at seven years old somehow. It seemed the ideal age, uncorrupted. The funny thing is, I think I succeeded. At least, it feels like I came of age far more slowly and reluctantly than anyone I know. I get now, at 27, the giddy joy of clearing my own path that comes to others at the end of adolescence. I wish not to hesitate to call myself an adult.