My life at 23.

I’m 23 years old now, according to Pacific Standard Time on planet Earth, where we distinguish age through increments of 365 days, which are each individually composed of 1,440 minutes, which are composed of 60 seconds, and so on.

I just finished reading Slaughterhouse-Five a few days ago. So it goes.

I’m lying in bed right now and everything feels anticlimactic and overwhelming all at once. Nothing has changed in the last five minutes. As per usual, I’m still me. And that, in and of itself, can sometimes feel like a whole load to bear.

I’m trying to remember what I was doing when I turned 22. I would have been at school, in my university apartment. I can’t remember exactly what I was doing in the moments of title change, though.

Right now I feel burdened by everything I haven’t yet done. Everything I may never do.

I’m currently a freelance filmmaker, also known as a mostly unemployed, typically underpaid, sometimes busy, often confused creative type with just enough remnant optimism to hope my art matters, and just enough life experience and reality bruising to feel the sheen of optimism glistening a little less vibrantly than it did four months ago.

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