The wind is blowing hard (resulting in no mosquitos). It's getting dark. The sky is overcast. But the air is almost warm with only a crisp hint of freshness. You're laying on the back deck. Your stomach hurts from laughing, and yet every line makes you laugh some more.
You're talking about getting old. And how you'll wear purple hats, just because you can. then you come up with ways to violently disable the dirt bike driving next door. Despite, the trees are tall. Boxers, and tee-shirt. And a warm sleeping bag. Inside jokes carried on.
Maybe you realize, this is life. A part of it. The part which you go out of your way to create. But then hardly notice when it's here. More likely you don't.
This is life. Caramilk bars on the kitchen floor. Journal and pen on the brown velvet couch. Fresh sun on your cheeks as you head home from work. Yelling and pounding and needing to be free. Questioning and content and being eighteen.
Taking it all as it comes.
So tired your eyes hardly want to stay open. Opinions that change every month. Fighting your heart out. And being too shy. Toby Mac, Nickelback, Avril Lavigne. The life of the party. Hours in books. Feeling held down. Strong, single, your own. Eighteen.
Because, one day. What will be?