Almost there

14 more days till the end. Indifferent? Yes. Day by day, I inch closer to being 18, to being an adult. Part of me dies inside as I think about it. The responsibilities, or should I say the burdens. The need to act okay, the need to be okay. There’s no more of being immature in thinking, nor in actions, as everything now has a consequence. A consequence heavier than an hour of detention, a consequence that will be recorded and not thrown away. Then again, why should we measure our maturity into adulthood solely based on age? Society says so, perhaps.  The fact that I am inadequately (in a sever sense) an adult scares me, to the point that I feel a sense of immense hopelessness at my being after 18 years of earthly living. What am I? I’m not a filial & loving daughter, not a kind & giving sister, not an accomplished student, nor am I the nicest friend to have. What can I proudly say I have achieved or become after these 18 years? Nothing.

Shards against shards, rubbing…cutting.