The Observatory

I’ve noticed lately that adults, or young adults at least, seem to have this desire to pretend their teenage years never happened. My creative writing teacher, a graduate student, put it into words when she said that, as an adult, she found it embarrassing to be reminded of how life was like as a teenager because she could no longer relate to the feeling of being one.

I can understand not wanting to dwell on the less glamorous parts of one’s life. Teenagers do stupid things. That’s what being a teenager is about. But all adults were teenagers at some point, and it’s not exactly fair to, once you cross the 18 or 20 or however many years barrier, claim that none of it was real. Just because you’re past it doesn’t mean those struggles and triumphs and emotions weren’t real. They were. They meant something.

And if you forget that, then it’s your loss.

I just realized that the palms of my hands glitter ever so slightly in the light.

I don’t know if they’re supposed to do that, but it’s cool none the less.