A creaking sound followed my rising body, arms crossed over my chest as if prepared for burial, a sallow tone to my skin. Thirty could only be compared to begrudgingly rising from your grave morning after morning. The youth I’d taken for granted had been rode hard and put out wet and I was paying for it.
You were never that cool. They were never that cool. Memories of your youth will not save you from your future. Because they’re bullshit. I heard once our memories merely exist from the last time we recalled them. That memory of senior prom we’re clinging to for dear life likely wasn’t exactly how we remember it today just as it won’t be exactly how we remembered it today when we think of it again next week. Nostalgia, a series of bullshit we tell ourselves to convince our brains there was a time better than now.