Nineteen in Quarantine + Other Revisions

I turned nineteen years old yesterday. It was a very interesting birthday compared to the ones I’ve had every other year of my life. Most of my family and extended family has been taking COVID-19 very seriously so no one came over.

Unsurprisingly, I really loved yesterday. I’m not much of a party or people person so I walked around yesterday in a cute outfit and baked. I made myself a cake. It was delicious.

Usually on my birthday I get really self-reflective. I look back on my last birthday and recall whatever goal I had set for myself that year. “By the time I’m ____ I’ll have done______”

This time I didn’t do that. I’ve come to a place where I’m content with what I do and am. I no longer have expectations. Unhealthy expectations of myself or my life. I know what I want out of my life, I don’t have an exact set plan but I know the work I do now is working to that goal.

Hahahahaha. This is Annette from a few days later. Disregard the last paragraph. It’s bullshit. Of course I’ve gone back and analyzed my past 18th year of life while in the shower, while watching New Girl. It is my nature. I have standards I set for myself. Albeit this time around I was not harsh on myself. I have grown this past year, in ways I do not need to explain. I feel like I try to explain myself a lot. For what I feel or say. I know I’ve grown, and each year I’ll take inventory of whatever growth occurred.

Anyways, Today is April 1, 2:4 6am. It’s been about five or six days since my birthday. And about two weeks, I think, of social distancing. I’ve been up since 7 am of yesterday and have spent the past 4 hours watching Olivia Gatwood and Melissa-Lozada Olivia on Youtube. Out of nowhere this burst of creativity hits and I’ve written three rough drafts of poems, and an outline and I’ve journaled and analyzed my psyche. So here goes, straight from my journal:

After trying to mold words to the tune of melodic major key chords, into short-quipped Rupi Kaur less is more poems, into an all-encompassing “this poem will give me the answer” poem, I have realized in the past hour that its an exploration. Olivia Gatwood said something while in conversation with Melissa-Lozada Olivia about snapshots. I can do that. I have a specific event I feel the urge to unpack and write about. But instead of trying to put this month-long event into one, few lined poem, I can break it down. If I want to write about the song that played in the room, I can, or the smell of the air, the stairs in the apartment, I can.


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