27

the number 27 is romanticized and idolized to such a degree
it immediately makes me think of Lana del Rey song lyrics
all the hooplah about dying young
Cobain Joplin Hendrix Morrison Winehouse
the cynical part of me thinks
if drugs and alcohol weren't in the supporting role
how much more art we would have seen in this world


i turned 27 in Japan without much fanfare
 - nobody at the hospital knew it was my birthday
 - i erased the date from facebook

the Person bought me a nice trenchcoat i'd been coveting, and we ate tsukemen for dinner
i didn't think much about that number

27


until i drove home earlier today from work
it's funny how productive i get when my time becomes limited
(i suppose there's an analogy to life somewhere in there)

i've been writing with a fever again
and i've been thinking about Charlotte and her connection to me

subconsciously, i think i always knew this
but the revelation hit me like a train

Charlotte is gifted with prodigal musical talent
but cursed with crippling stage fright


what happens to your sense of identity?
when the one thing that drives you
your purpose
your meaning
is invisible to the world around you

i'm 27 years old
how many of the people around me know that i write
or rather, know that i write well
know that i spend nearly all my free time
thinking about it, obsessing about it

i hide it, you see
it's "pretentious" to say you're a writer
i don't show people my work
i want it to be perfect before they see it
but it never is
my own fucked up version of stage fright

the 27 club made their mark by this age
they died young

but before that
they lived



when is it your turn, Sophelia?