on youth
We are a winter sun, a Santa Ana wind, a San Franciscan fog, and we will hope never to be old or wise or kind enough to ourselves...
Rest assured, we are still blindingly young. So young, in fact, that stiff pines bend towards the highway and laugh at us as we ride swiftly along. Our eyes tied to the swim, to the traffic rushing us forwards, still yearning to conquer the distance of lightyears. We are so young, in fact, that we still cry at the sight of true love, expressed in an assemblage of flowers and long dresses. Time and time again, when the pastor proclaims that you can kiss the bride, our tears affirm us. Such simplicity was created for a reason and you are still fallible to moments of saccharine. We clap, we dance, laugh until the ocean envelops us whole. We are still so young, I say, without condescension because I too am pummelled by desire and riddled with guilt. I remain a child of feeling, and like a child, I try earnestly to hold onto everyone I’ve ever known. If people are anything like water, then we are nothing solid and everything everchanging. We are a winter sun, a Santa Ana wind, a San Franciscan fog, and we will hope never to be old or wise or kind enough to ourselves, and we will cry and strive over exponent truths because it is as joyful and fulfilling to know that we are still fools in our youth.
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