Age is a figment of our imagination, just like
It serves to mark cultural and societal milestones
You’re 13? You’re a man in Jewish culture
15? Quincenara time, Amiga.
18?
18?
Going once, going twice?
18?
I just turned 18, and I don’t feel any different.
I don’t look any different.
But the symptoms of 18 aren’t obvious. They’re much more nefarious.
You’re part of the rat race, kid.
College loans and being tried as an adult are a few of the lovely prizes we have in our bonus round of life, cause when you pass that age, kid, the gloves come off, and the brass knuckles come on.
But here’s the thing.
In the grand game of life, age isn’t even a pebble in the proverbial pacific pond, buddy.
I’ve met people my age wise beyond their years, and people older then me who could learn a few things by going back to kindergarten.
Be yourself, not who you should be at 13, 14, 15, and so on.
Study remedial physics, rally, protest, get an internship, travel the world.
Life was made for loving and living, not counting the tallies on a chalkboard.
So don’t hold yourself to the amount of candles on a cake.
At the end of the day, it’s all wax burning.