eight

We spend so much time as kids just waiting to grow up. We think, someday, I'll be an adult, and then I'm done. I'll be some real version of myself, and I'll be that person until I die.

And then we become adults, and nothing has really changed, except we're a little more alone -- there's less help that we can expect from others.

We're no more real than we were when we started. Just different in fairly mundane ways.

And when it came time for me to choose who I was going to be -- who the real me was -- I couldn't just wish to be 21 like most people did. It's not that I believe that the real me is who I was when I was eight; I just can't understand the weight given to adulthood by so many. We're all the same scared little kids we always were. Why do we pretend otherwise?

I'm no more innocent, and no less. I'm just human. I make mistakes. There are things I don't know or understand. I'm looking for something that I'll never find, and even if I do find it, I'll just want something else. I'm weak. I can be hurt. I love and hate just because that's what us humans do.