How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?
Satchel Page
I hate my birthday. Okay, I have a love/hate relationship with my birthday. I’ll be the first to jump, squeal, and throw confetti in the air if it’s your birthday, but the overexcitement for an annual celebration lost its momentum at fifteen. No, it’s not because I had an ostentatious Quinceanera, an occasion so overwhelming it can only be toppled by a wedding, so every other birthday is just a disillusionment. No, I hate my birthday because every passing year weighs heavier, the imminence of responsibility and expectation collide to remind you that you are not where you should be. To be honest, you don’t even know where this place is, or if it exists, you only ever so often encounter it in between the shortness of breadth and distance in strides, long or short that carry you through the morning.
I hate my birthday because an inexplicable sadness washes over me, one 22 years have not taught me how to control. I fear I may have been born with an ireconcialable soul, one that seeks without end, gains without fulfillment, and lays restless in a discontent of my own making I cannot share this with others, how do you divide doubt, how do you measure distress? And so I spend the day alone. I navigate through whichever city or airport I find myself in, and clutch onto two secrets, my name and my birthday. On the day where we all want to be remembered, wished and reached out to, I like to forget who I am and seek comfort in anonymity.
But, then I love my birthday, I love sharing it with the family and friends who prioritize this day more than I ever could alone. I’m grateful to have these people who will pull me out of my birthday blues and remind me that though I may question myself I also have 365 days worth of people, spread across miles and time difference, who I would never question their being in my life, and so I outsource my birthday and celebrate them.
memories stitched in denim 