little things

i'm almost 18 and it's scary.

writing is no longer my passion.

it hurts to admit. it was something that kept me going for so long. of course, i still write when inspired, but it's not something i would like to do full time.
i write about hurt.
i write about happiness.
i write about my complicated, teenage love life.
i write about anything that will come to mind, but i never write about you.
it hurts too much.

writing is no longer my passion, but i will write for you.

...

i don't like hiking as much as i used to.

it's getting more exhausting than ever, to even get up. seasonal depression sucks, but i know it's not just that. i'm losing light of things that used to make me happy. making room for different things.
the beautiful pathways,
the little bugs waving at me.
the happiness i feel at the end of a hike. accomplished.
it doesn't feel the same.

i don't like hiking as much as i used to, but i'll wake up at five a.m. for you.

...

i don't sing as much anymore.

my voice has changed. i can't seem to get a pitch correctly anymore and it hurts. i want to be able to sing the way i did when i was sixteen.
sixteen seems so far away. when in reality, it was a year ago.
i can't hit the high notes, or sing a vibrato like i used to.

i don't sing as much anymore. alas, you are my sunshine.

...

i don't wonder.

i'm growing, and i know more now.
i don't wonder if i'll be okay, because i'm okay now.
i don't wonder why grass smells the way it does in rain, because i know that now.
i don't wonder how songs are composed, because i know it just comes to people now.
the rhythm, the notes, the ever-rhyming lyrics. it comes so easy to them, the way these words spill from my fingertips onto my notes app, early january.

i don't wonder if it will hurt when i leave, it hurts enough now.

...

writing isn't my favorite thing anymore.
i'm too out of shape to hike comfortably.
singing doesn't come as easily anymore.
and god forbid i get lost in thought, wondering.

but- i do it for you.

i do it for you, on my one hour drive up here.

i do it for you, saying hello to others. are they in the same boat as me?

i do it for you, going to my first dinner, writing my first words,
hiking my first hike,
singing on my first morning,
wondering what will be on that piece of paper. (i have all the other ones hung up like college diplomas.)

i don't know how to end this off, so i'll take the words that cole said to me and use them.

i don't need to have a dramatic exit,

i just need to know that my words got across, and i need you to know that i'm leaving now.