For me, it is 25. It is a number, it is an attitude. When I think back upon it I find it intersecting points that make me realize that our world and our souls are not only predestined...they are also malleable.
My first foray at 25 was a high school lacrosse team...25 is the smallest aspiring number, it is a centered octoganol number, a centered square number.
Room 425 was my room at VMI...4th floor, room 25.
It was my football number, my soccer number. My goalie jersey number. It is my age.
When I was young I thought I'd be married at 25. I was 3 years early.
But on the cusp of a year removed from doubling my magic number, it has not lost its enchantment nor its luster.
I will, I fear, find myself mentally and physically striving for that perfect 25 age.
I won't go at it falsely; the scars and fullness of heart that makes me 49 are great inspirations to me that I must and will carry. It's just that I sometimes approach things with the eagerness and energy of a 25 year old. If I had known what I know now back then? Off the charts.
But the reality is that I have grown to appreciate. I've grown to really appreciate beauty, and relaxation...and struggle, and achievement. A broad pallet. A horizon.
I look at the world, a people, at things with a fine appreciative eye. And perhaps my words reflect that...I read stuff from back then and I still had the desire to paint a certain picture...but like an Impressionist painting maybe my words are more fuzzy...more surreal...but still painting that picture.
I don't know. I don't get paid to write. I've gotten one check in my life for writing in College for winning an award. It sits uncashed in an album in my parent's house.
I'd love to reverse that trend. My stupid 25 year old wish, at 49, is to take more risks in writing...and expose it to more people and see if somewhere there is a connection.
I don't know.
Feedback welcome. I almost became a writer. But then again, we almost do a lot of things.
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