the eighth day of autumn

Today is grey, and the sky is falling slowly, drop by drop, down onto my head.  Tomorrow is the anniversary of my being thrust forth into this world, and this is a fact about which I have a high level of ambivalence.  You could say that the grey is both inside and outside today.  I wonder when it was that birthdays stopped being special and started becoming disappointments.  Not that they always are.  I can remember having good birthdays.  But generally they are a day I would rather avoid, and have been for at least a decade.  This slow transitioning from early to mid thirties is not something I have looked forward to, and I’m only just at the start.  I don’t feel like 32 is who I am, if you know what I mean.  Not that I like the idea of being younger, that just seems kind of grotesque, and older is not somewhere I want to be either.  I guess the whole process of aging is just strange to me despite the fact that it is something that has continued to happen, day after day, year after year since the moment of my beginning.  I have had an idea about how I’d like to celebrate my birthday rolling around in my head for months, but it kind of relies on other people, and I don’t like to ask other people for things, which means I’m kind of stuck.  I do it to myself and so I can’t complain.

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