It is a birthday season of sorts. My aunt's, sister's, then in a few days my good friend sarah's. Certainly it's all good fun. I always feel good giving people things that they like, even if I don't hit the mark all too often. Besides, the celebratory atmosphere is a welcome reprieve from the usual humdrum.
Yet I can't help but feel a certain ambivalence towards my own birthday in september. After all, it is going to be my 21st, and regardless of how I ordinarily view my own birthday celebrations, a 21st carries much more symbolism, and much more meaning for me as a person.
The past few years have been icky ones. I have gained and lost in many ways, and in this sense, these years have been so different from their predecessors. I have never been a person who cared much for people, but this past phase has led me to know people I would care very much for indeed. However, as if this was merely one side of the coin, my failings always come to mind. I have been exposed as the inadequate person I am so often that I'm sorely tempted to withdraw into a protective, impossibly good world.
Yet as unprepared I am, the next phase looks set to be something completely new. Something shelter-less. I don't know if I'm ready for it, but I'm going anyhow.
I think everyone who is about to leave a part of life behind for a significant period of time will hope in ways that he is sorely missed. I certainly do. I long for an affirmation that I wasn't a nobody for this passing phase of my life. I long to know that in spite of my failings and my inadequacies, I meant something to the people who mean so much to me.
But the truth can be a scary thing. If my 21st is to be a coming-of-age, a passing from this part of life to the next, then I don't know if I'm ready to know whether I was really worth anything at all.
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