I feel 16. 16 is not worrying about homework and jobs and grades and college. That’s not what 16 is meant for. 16 is lust and love and passion and hate and singing at the top of your lungs and dancing even if you’re alone, just because you can. 16 is confusion and insecurity and self-doubt and self-discovery and staying up until 5 am thinking about the future and different worlds and thinking about living and thinking about being 16. 16 is discovering people who finally understand you, or maybe they don’t but they love you anyway, and finding that sometimes people you love will not love you back and that’s when you become guarded. But 16 is also when you learn to throw off the self-imposed shield and love freely, love generously, love trustingly, love the bird above your head in the sky and love your parents, love the smell of a crisp winter morning and the enthusiastic vivacity of spring, love the boy who smiles at you for a second longer than anyone else in the coffee shop and the girl whose eyelashes are the only things distracting you from her wondering eyes so full of life, and love yourself, love your life with all of its pains and beauties and the slightest happiness you feel at a pink and golden flower or your first kiss or your seventy-first kiss. Love anything or love everything, or fall in love with love itself, and then one day, fifty years from now, maybe you will still say this, and maybe you will always say this: I feel 16.
The Problem with Exp… on Journal: Sixteen cjok15 on This is the goodbye you’…