“I was a winged obsessive, my moonlit feathers were paper. I lived hardly at all among men and women; I spoke only to angels. How fortunate my days, how charged and meaningful the nights’ continuous silence and opacity.” – Louise Glück, from “Ancient Text”
This years birthday cake. Twenty-one! The truth, I don’t usually celebrate. Call it elitist or detached (or both), but rejoicing age, another year older, has never been something I yearned for. I blame my love for American Beauty on the sort-of self-deprecating ideals that stem. The kind of societal ideals that entail certain life’s milestones to be reached within the perimeters of a new age. A kind of pursuit in identity and self-obsession, that always set my warped line amongst the straight. A good cake, that’s the extent I’m willing to go.