The amount of time I’ve spent wondering where I would be without him, is so consistent with the time I’ve spent realizing that I would be nothing. As well as this, I often wonder how people can go their entire lives settling for desk jobs and second loves when their heart and mind is still ignited from their previous escapades of romance and individuality. Recently, I’ve noticed that when people grow older, they seem to shed their youth, and the exoskeleton are that of children, and taxes, and trivia nights on Thursdays. Along so, I’ve noticed that some try to grow a new one, that is adapted to their new life of not having as much of a life as they did in college. And with this they multiply in forms of pastels and soccer moms and bankers. They communicate in a language that melts into the one big warning sign that reads “I am you in the next two decades.” I read these signs like they are posted on the inside of my eyes, and I understand. I understand that to grow up is to grow in. What I also understand is that there is nothing to be afraid of, but nothing to be eager for. What is useless now is useful when you obtain a new exterior. The time I spend wondering where I would be, where I will be, about sex, about God, about the things that make me want to live and the things that make me want to die. This time is not a waste, but proof, that youth is invincible; immortal. And I am a collection of my troubled past and bright future. I am not a product of it’s destruction. For my young age stems from these shedding taxpayers. I have loved and I love and I will love. And since he has stemmed from them as well, we grow as one.

He comes from the days I spent writing my inner monologues in Barnes and Noble journals, and he remains in the ink of my pen that I spill out onto the paper within the third journal I’ve gotten from then. Sometimes he is ink and sometimes he is the paper. Sometimes he is the writer. In the whopping two years I’ve held him dear, and the following two I’ve held him significant, we have established a thriving flame. A flame that burns so effortlessly and is so extraordinarily and romantically chaotic. But in those two years, I recall myself as imperfect because I failed to recognize that the catastrophes and overall bliss in which I dominantly exist comes from his presence and company, as a friend, a listener, and a bearded hero. Despite my lack of said recognition, I feel as though the general nature of our concrete friendship was enough to make us believe that is was better off that way. Not as if we completely eliminated any comfort beyond that nature, but we simply went quietly about it. Thus he went on finding comfort in drumsticks and feeling less than complete, and I went on disregarding what I deserve and taking my life my storm. All the while he counts off our similarities and and I count off our failed relationships; both of us remaining seemingly indifferent to the obvious compatibility we shared. In the depths of my composure, he has made himself into weathered stone that is immobile to the days I spend now.

Following our parted ways, we are entitled to our doubts. The flame that was once thought of as coincidental is now thought of as inevitable. And after two fiery years of playing a role we were never meant to play, we instead found comfort and disregards under a million stars. And we had a furious epiphany that is of the buried in ourselves,  coming together in symphonies and floral distribution of spirit. But eventually we ignore warning signs consisting of the thought of growing from our stems frightening us to the point of temporary nonexistence, where we are departed with tattered hearts more hardened. And we break away from our sticky and convoluted pair of dice.

Less than gently distributed across spectrum, we had our turns with unfortunate individuals on account of our misbehavior. But there’s a detection from our signals that were sent through unexpected encounters and park benches. Tennis courts, and haunted houses. As wildly hoped, our ties that have been tied in knots since we met, bonded us together again. I can only ever think of this second chance as a miracle or fate. There is an old Chinese folktale that says, before humans were sent out to the world, the Gods tied red strings around their hands and feet. These red strings are connected to another human’s red strings, and these other humans are said to be one’s soulmate. Therefore, these are the ties of fate. My theory is simply that his red strings are tied to mine.

As a person who is susceptible to independence and limited importance, I can confidently level the significance in which my high school sweetheart has in my life. Every day I continue to count similarities, like I count the freckles on his back. Or the times he taps his fingers on the steering wheel. And the amount of time I spend wondering how I could get so lucky in my early years is consistent with the amount of time I spend realizing I was this entire time. But now I can find comfort in the smell of his pillow mixed with morning grass. I can recognize my senses more vividly; I hear music like I never have before. We go on about our lives finding unity in Miysaki movies and sushi, as each time I’m reminded that, yes, Blue Ocean is the best place to go. I frequently partake in the immaculate consumption of our youth, because we will not be 17 and 18 forever, but we will be young.  I frequently partake in the immaculate consumption of our youth, because we will not be 17 and 18 forever, but we will be young. As I am infinitely complete, my exoskeleton will shed in forms of inspiration and warm appreciation. It will be that of everything I will ever dream, and the time I’ve spent aching for the missing piece has come to an end. I will tie my red string into three knots. I will love and love and love. Because even though we offspring from our opposites, we refuse to remain silent. For we will pay our taxes and be forever young. And the question of whether this will challenge our future, who knows, who cares?