It terrifies me that nothing ever stays the same. Whether I like it or not, the things I love will slip from my fingers. All I want is to live in the same dream forever and ever. But I can’t. I’ll never leave this life, no, but it will leave me.
The day will come when I’ll be out on my own in a completely new place. I’ll have to pay my own bills and balance my own checkbook. I won’t know a soul around me. Weekends won’t be the same. Afternoons won’t be the same. I’ll drift away from everything and everyone I loved. What terrifies me the most is that, after a while, I won’t even care. How many times, when I was young, did I wish upon a star for my days to stay in that pleasant state for eternity? And how many times was my wish refused? I cannot count. Yet, now, I don’t care. I don’t care about what I used to wish for.
This is why I cling. If I cling, this reality won’t abandon me. Because the moment it drifts away – even a little bit – is the moment that I’ll start the process of ceasing to care. So here I am, sixteen, clutching these days like an elderly person would grip the hand of their loved one before a gentle death. But these days are flowers. They bloom for a time, wilt, and then crumble between my fingers. And they won’t stay no matter how tight I hold them.