it feels less infinite

It's just become June and like some frilly little child of 10 my stomach did a miniature flip because it means that in just one day I'll be a year older. I don't even like birthdays, in fact I dread them but for some reason when the clock struck twelve, I just knew. It is now my month. My beautiful summery, one-year-older, attention-dodging month. The other months slide by under my radar, like any other day, oh its march? Fancy that. But June holds a special place for contemplation, inevitable ick thoughts and the inventory of the past 365.

What's strange is that I cannot for the life of me remember how I spent my last birthday. I can remember various friends 23rds and 24ths and 25ths, but I'm sitting here drawing a blank on my own. It's strange, thinking back on a year of your life. Your short life, long life however you view it, and trying to realize what you've accomplished what you fucked up, what brought you joy. The laughs, the down-and-outs and the gasp stories accumulated over the year.

I've hardly lost any friends, kept a job (touch wood) and felt passionate and a little bit more whole. but what does it matter when I can't remember the very moment of turning 24. I can assure myself that this year I'll remember, I'll clink glasses with my gals and guys and can only hope that champagne will be involved. But will I remember this one? WIll I forget like its a just a page in some novel, forgettable like a poorly written page of a great book?

When you're getting older, is it still okay to focus on the birthdays? Just like anniversaries, are they truly important? If I refuse to admit to having a boyfriend, refuse to celebrate a monthly anniversary, much less a relationship with the idea that every moment should be spent celebrating a bond or a life or a kiss and everything, what makes my birthday any different? Photos will be taken cette an.