Deathdays and Birthdays, and the Days In Between

I'm not certain what to think these days. About my friends or my family or my acquaintances. About school, about work, about life.

In my last post, I said that Tim died. Because, well, he did.

At that moment, I felt unjustified for feeling anything. Tim and I were tentative friends; he hung out with my brother, we partied together once, we saw each other in several classes between junior high and senior year. But we weren't close. And as long as we weren't close, what right did I have to grieve?

Right?

Maybe so. Maybe it's just my excuse not to cry. Or maybe it's my excuse for letting that phone call go by, letting it be a joke so he wouldn't feel so embarrassed (because he was, otherwise he wouldn't have deleted it from my voicemail). If I had really been a friend to Tim, I wouldn't have let that call go as some drunken sobbing over things that aren't real. Or maybe I would've. I wouldn't know.

My birthday was yesterday.

The funny thing about that is I never expected to live this long. Not a day in my life. Being an adult was always something vague and unsettling because somewhere in me I just knew I wouldn't reach that age. I wonder if Tim felt that way too. We all talk about what we're gonna do when we're old or what age we think would be the perfect age to die. But in the end, how many people actually think that those plans will work out exactly as such? Nobody. You never know, and if you do, you lead a very tragic life.

I don't know. Maybe I won't be an adult. Maybe I've already killed the part of me that was supposed to get there. Maybe the concept of adulthood is just a joke played by universe. Or maybe I'm still just a kid, and I'm playing with toys that are too big for me.