Another year older

Today I grow a little older. I turned 27 at the start of 2016, and for the first time in my life, I felt the pressure of time. Before 27, time was white noise; I did not abide by its timeline, my sense of self was not wedded to each year that passed. Time was a crescendo - it was light and I rose up with it, basking in the feeling of weightless ascent.

Something changed when I realised I was 27: time no longer feels like a rising. I feel resistance to it for the first time, a heaviness tied to me. It no longer feels inconsequential.

The other day I awoke suddenly in the dead of the night; my body was dying. In my hypnagogic state, it felt as if every single cell in my body was starting to decay. Like I was paying up a debt with every little piece of my mass, my physicality, as if my body was finally giving up something. The life that burned within me and had hitherto only expanded, was starting to slowly seep. All I could do in that moment was cry. I curled up into a ball and cried. Cried for the loss of something. Bone marrow? For the girl I used to be?