(or, Trying to Get Myself to Write Again)
Happy Birthday, Me.
Happy Birth, Blog.
Happy 150th, Jose Rizal.
I turned 24 last June 13. This means that I have gone through a second rotation of my Chinese zodiac sign, the rabbit. That I am still under the Western zodiac sign of the twins, not that I’m expecting that fact to change soon. This also means that I am supposedly one year away from the age when a person is at their prime, often conceived, not ironically, as the prime age for marrying as well.
But, to quote, age is just a number. Funny, this obsession with cyclical timekeeping. Or is it just jadedness that brings forth these bits and pieces of quarterlife-ish angst? Is it this gradually increasing series of numbers (waistline, age, BP, cholesterol levels, etc.) that prompt people to continue marking their calendars?
Or maybe it’s just our obsession with having to put a definition on everything. After all, anything we cannot convince ourselves of being able to grasp is likely to haunt us for our entire lives.