Boundless Entries

This is 32. 

Juggling roles like a circus kid. But no longer stuck on making it seem effortless. 

Three notebooks in the tote bag at all times. Carrying half my weight in books like my life depends on it. 

Because what if the poetry hits unexpectedly. Best be prepared. 

Two little girls and a new state of being. But motherhood takes relentlessly and gives back only what you allow it to through the guilt of not knowing everything. Or knowing what could have been done better. Or what could have been phrased better. 

This is 32. 

Crippling discomfort of the idea of where you need to be. God forbid it’s the same place as last year. 

Twenties were transformative. Thirties are for thriving. 

Reading such slogans on blogs that stick like a tick at the back of my mind. 

This is 32. 

Where performing ends and life begins. 

There’s no welcome to the me show.

We regret to inform you that the performer is on to more authentic choices. 

This is 32. 

And the realisation of simply being a psychosocial product of the past thirty-one years keeps the ego in check. 

The mirror doesn’t hear overblown mantras. 

A simple “thank you for showing up” does the trick. 

This is 32. 

The year of not being afraid to turn simple conversations into existential debates. 

Embracing the human duty to argue when needed. 

This 32. 

Call me sensitive and overly critical. I can live with that.