((and all those things that accompany wrinkles))
I look at my hands and I see faint traces of glitter. Chipped nail polish – the glossy kind, of course. It’s icing atop a crumbled cake.
Because right next to the futile attempt at classiness – at elegance – lie the broken giveaways of a girl who’s run out of time. Right next to the frosting lie the unkempt cuticles, the slightly knobby knuckles and above all, the writing callouses.
It’s the hand of a journalist. Of a girl – definitely a girl – who loves to write. Who loves the rain and the smell of a leathery-book. Who finds beauty and art in the midst of breakdowns. Who runs on time crunches and deadlines and sleepless, dreamless nights. Who’s gained a few more age lines alongside the self-induced stress.
She’s a girl faced with some decisions – some life-changing decisions – but she can’t make her choice.
I was finally enjoying the ‘now’ of life. But ‘now’, I must look to the future.
I’m not ready to do that.
I want to stay enveloped in this world that I’m not even sure is an actual reality. It’s a world where I live a 5-minute’s walk away from my very best friends, where car rides are filled with laughter and odes to innocent strangers walking down High Street, where those icy Saturdays are spent watching football in a stadium with 100,000 other fans and where everyday is an adventure.
I love it, and I’m afraid of losing it all. Inevitably losing it all.
It’s causing me to gain a few more of those horrid age lines.