Below my name, my age was located. It read:
14 y/o
"It's not the right time for me to change one digit yet", I told myself—not because I want to be of that age again, but 14 suddenly became an efficacious sign of taking the challenges that await me in my journey—leaving the hyperactive twelve–year–old, the unenlightened yet upset thirteen–year–old, and the learning fourteen–year–old behind—but never forgotten. It is as if I was never the three but am the three, and will still leave an impression on each one. My constant babble might not be contained by my weak mind, but my almost masked emotions tell me that I have only grown by kilometers.
Almost the same number of meters I have had on the road, leaping for the sidewalk—leaving notions on the minds of other people, bag slung on my shoulder—silently waiting for a harmless cataclysmic event to happen, searching for myself—walking.
110121: I'd have to service myself with the less–than–exquisite tastes my thought process has to offer me first.
110816: Ah, the naivety that comes with being young. Finding yourself isn't a terribly taxing process as the young might think it is. It's not so much distance or time. It's not college, even. It's reflection. If it's taken you kilometers, almost half your life, and a useless education until you have an epiphany in front of a mirror, remember the legwork and nonsense—what's that? You want some more?
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