Notes on Maturity

I remember the day I grew up. It was cold, the three year old boots I could not afford to change if I wanted to, soaking through a double layer of socks slowly; like death by a stationary car. I stood on a curb waiting for the light to turn from green back to red so that I could wait for it to turn green again; I didn’t want it to change on me mid-crossing. Montreal drivers are fucking insane and though depressed, I was not yet begging for death. That was when it hit me: maturity. Like a brick through a window on the night before Christmas.

“I need to start thinking about what I want my life to look like, rather than what I want others to think it looks like.”

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