25
At 22, I didn't think I'd be 23 and then I was. At 23, I didn't think I'd be 24 and then I turned 24. At 24 now, I think I'll most definitely not be 25. But, perhaps, I will be. Along the way, I've lost so much of who I was at 20 that turning 25 doesn't seem so much a celebration. Dreams have slipped by in the chaos of making it through every night. Ambitions left behind in the ache of not having enough strength to wake up. People have come and gone and while there have been fleeting moments of joy, nothing has ever seemed to last. Those I grew up around tell me, you're not the same anymore. And I look at myself and don't see the spark I held in my eyes. Small joys aren't joys anymore. They're chores. Most of them, I'm unable to complete. I wrote myself a letter at 18, one I was supposed to read at 25. When I read it, I am certain I won't find the girl whom I wrote it for. People I live around now, tell me, I like to suffer. But I...