The last year has felt longer than my entire life before it and yet has passed more quickly. It's not even the year that matters. Seven more months to be 21 in this god forsaken country.
My writing has all but stopped due to lack of a keyboard. I won't write by hand, it hurts too much. Yeah yeah, save the comments. Pain is pain. I'm not sitting there writing until my hand cramps itself into a ball. No thank you.
I've been drawing more though. More visual inspiration with my newfound lack of other stimuli.
I've said before that I felt alone. That was childish whining. Now I actually have a significant lack of meaningful human interaction. Oddly enough it's not as bad as I thought it was. Still not great though. I don't feel a year older. I feel five years older. Probably should get some sleep but my eyes are wide open.
At least my job is much better. Cutting fruit for seven hours is nice. On my own, no micromanagement and no one looking over your shoulder. You do whatever you want in whatever order and walk away to pee or take your break when you please. Wouldn't trade that for the world.
All of my previous worries about growing older have been replaced with more realistic concerns.
I hate it. Growing more practical and analytical. Discipline has it's advantages at the cost of your mentality.
The spark of life is dull. I'm not dumb enough to end it or despair, 'WOE IS ME,' no. But the magic is going away. What I loved about the correlation between fiction and reality, the beauty I saw in everything... it's fading.
My younger self would be disgusted at this change. I might become the person I swore I never would be. And yet... I can't bring myself to care.