![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/d_642250b563292b35f27461a7.png,f_jpg,fl_progressive,q_auto,w_1024/63dc55d7bb978e001e37c9bf.jpg)
Thirty.
11:59 rolled into 12:00
I feel no different
But it’s all changed.
I’m no longer a young dreamer
A sweet faced ingenue
The world cares less how I feel
A new demographic
Irrelevant. Outdated
An old system in need
Of an update.
Thirty.
I didn’t feel myself change
I didn’t mourn the dreams
That must have shriveled within me
thirty is not for dreamers
do I dream
did I dream?
Was there ever a dream?
Or just an idea that sounds nice
In my head?
What if the sum of my youth
Adds to nothing?
What if my whole existence was a lie?
I’m not a genius
Or an artist
I don’t know what I am.
Yes I do.
I’m thirty.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
About the Creator
Nicole Westerhouse
I'm thirty.
Damn, that hurts to type, but there it is.
Not much of note.
I suppose I should say "yet."
Makes it sound like I'm going places.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.