Apr. 15th, 2007

rewritethepast: (hmm)
[started at 11:23 pm, April 14, 2007]

I look at the clock. It’s 11:23 pm, and the sky has long gone dark and the neighborhood silenced. It’s always been a clock-watching day, this day. Every time this day in the year goes by, my awareness of the different clocks in my domicile increases proportionally to my decreased need for sleep. And now that the day is over, time seems to have slowed to a crawl, that I’ve typed this sentence and it’s only 11:25 pm by my electronic clock.

It’s funny. I don’t profess to love my birthday; it is always a day celebrated other than for my birth. If it’s not Black Saturday, Good Friday, Maundy Thursday, any other day in Holy Week, it’s Income Tax Day and my parents are indisposed as they calculate tax returns of other people. If it’s not any of these days, it’s the day of a boxing match of Pacquiao. Good heavens.

Yes, yes. And of course to my family (or at least part of them) I take the back seat once again as my boxing fanatic family members head off to watch it Pay-Per-View style.

I’ve never really liked my birthday. When I was a child, I thought that 13 was a grand old age and that when I turned it, something would pop and I’d be magically transformed into a different person. When I was 13, I thought I would wait until 18 for the magical transformation. But it was not to be, as 18 rolled around and nothing dramatic happened to me. (Unless you count having one’s hair flung about by a rollercoaster, I mean, Space Mountain in Hongkong Disneyland.)

It’s 11:33 pm. I’ve stopped to pet a stuffed toy on its head and pull on socks to warm my chilled feet. I’m 18, and in a few minutes I’ll be 19. (If you want to get technical, I’ll turn 19 on 1:43 am, since I was born at that time almost 19 years ago.) 19 and the whole world is still unexplored by me. 19 and I’ve never been able to sit on my hair or bake a cake. 19 and I still wonder if I made the right decision almost one year ago by following up on my checking a single box less than a year before that.

I wonder.

With 19, then 20 and I’ll be entering med proper. With 20 comes 21, 22, 23, and soon I’ll be 24 and walking through PGH as an intern. With 24 comes 25 and I’ll take the boards. And with 25, the real world beckons.

It’s 11:37 pm. The socks aren’t helping my feet at all; they’re turning into foot-shaped (what else would they be shaped like?) ice cubes. I feel my hair tickling my lower back, the ends long enough to enter my pants. It’s odd to think that a year and four months ago my hair was just past my shoulders. Time, and 17 turns to 18 and now it’s 23 minutes to 19 and my hair is past my waist.

With 18 came my first hold departure order, my first step into college, my first step into a PGH ward. With 18 came the feelings of sadness with the departure of many friends, of not being able to see them or even talk to them. With 18 came the meeting of new friends, of interacting with them and seeing who they were and who they weren’t. With 18 came the reminder that life goes on, even though you wish for it to stop.

With 18 came the decision to break off the thread that connects me to you, that pale thread which I hope has not turned red.

With 18 came the learning to twirl and spin and step in time to music, to skin a frog after destroying its brain and to identify its muscles. With 18 came the label of supposed intelligence and the knowledge of the hatred of others not qualified for it. With 18 came the grief at seeing people suffer and not being able to help them. With 18 came the leaving, and the leaving remains tucked in the heart of a girl and it may never go away.

With 18 came the world anew and I received it and walked on it with eyes aglow. Looking at the world in these last moments before 19, it’s so much more than what I saw of it when 18 was just a second achieved.

It’s now 11:50 pm. I have given up my feet for lost, they might turn black from the cold and eventually fall off. My hair needs to be brushed, but I can’t find my comb. There’s 9 minutes to the last day of summer, how many hours until Pacquiao enters the boxing ring, and months and months until I see you again. If I see you again.

I don’t want to count anymore. (But it’s 11:54 pm.) Has it all been in vain, everything I’ve done? I don’t know.

Who knows what 19 will bring? Desecration of cat carcasses and organic chemistry, I know, and maybe even old friends that may return. But there are still many things hidden in the shadows, and I’ll need to count down the minutes to get closer to them.

It’s 11:59 pm. Let my last thought before 19 be this: perhaps it wasn’t a bad year after all.

And let my first thought at 19 be this: perhaps this won’t be a bad year after all.


taken from [livejournal.com profile] chnzo, [profile] ballisticgal, [profile] voldemort_a, and [personal profile] uno_animo

How it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc.)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button

A hypothetical soundtrack that dictates my hypothetical life? )

Remind me never to do this again unless I have given my Windows Media Player a severe talking-to.

And now I want to write an actual story based on this. Nooooooooooo.

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