A Question on Age

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It is very strange to grow up and see a friend gain a spouse while another gains depression. To see religion consume a life and anxiety another. I see tears over fictional boys and rips left by husbands turned strangers. A sister dreads a baby while a brother welcomes his. I am young, seen as fresh, yet I feel weathered and worn within. I am told to enjoy my youth: “You will want these days of simplicity back.” they exclaim with a certain type of sadness that only flashes in their eyes for a moment. If this is simplicity, how am I to hold, emotionally and physically, the torture that must come with age? Or should I say, the increasing torture, as the constant chaos residing in my heart and my mind keeps me awake at night yet hinders me from rising each morning. Whatever this is, I feel it in my veins, as if it is spreading throughout my body. I crave peace, yet I fear speaking things out loud. I am not composed when I speak the hurts I live with, and it is not that I am embarrassed, I just do not wish to bother anyone with my tears. People often don’t take them seriously, and I am very serious about fixing myself, as well as finding those who feel the same and showing that even if the chaos reminds, you are stronger than the pain that lines within. I know this because despite my chaos, I am still here.

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