You’re late for TEA

I’m a late bloomer. Not in that I was 4’11” until I was 17 or I didn’t get my braces off until I was 22 or anything, but in most other respects, yes. I wouldn’t even call it a bloom as much as a suspicious approach, armed with a nail file and ready to retreat back into a land of iced lattes and books at the slightest indication of expectations. And maybe that was a whole breed of being unwillingly advanced—who’s to say?

I just know that I party harder now then I did when I was 23, and I’m still not entirely sure what I want—and I’m OK with that. It’s strange but a lot of me ~letting loose~ was only OK (in my mind) once I had complete responsibility for myself. It was always the same thing for relationships—I’ve never been willing to drag anyone else into it, so much so that I didn’t even have a serious relationship until I was rooming alone, and I was 24 years old.

Everything everyone else does feels really fast to me. Maybe because I’m the kind of person who can experience very little but get a lot of mileage out of it. One week can be a chapter, a few moments can be a book. I can have my moments and then be good for days, weeks… months?

I still feel new to a lot of things. There’s a lot in front of me, but what’s behind me is just on my heels. And I’m not terribly concerned with whether it’s supposed to feel this way or not.

Maybe all it is, is that I’m a vivid re-collector.

And maybe we’ll live forever.

Imported from breesays