[for Friends] happy birthday
The only reason I remember it's my birthday today at all is because Pepper asked me if I want a party earlier in the week. I declined the offer, of course, both not wanting to trouble her any more than I already have and not up to the celebration. It's an occasion I meet with trepidation instead of jubilation, never having honestly thought I'd live to see the day, and last night, when midnight rolled around, I held my breath when the minute hand on my watch ticked from 59 to 00, waiting for something to happen... Only nothing did.
I didn't disappear or explode or get shot down, a villain from my past hadn't showed up as a sick little birthday surprise, and, as far as I knew, the rest of the Island -- at least the ones who weren't regular night owls like yours truly -- had an uneventful night.
The morning proves similarly quiet. I slip out of the mansion at an ungodly hour, the crisp air of pre-dawn chilly through the thin, long-sleeved tee I opted to wear. It's kind of nice in that it reminds me a little of New York, the humidity of the day not yet overwhelming, the deep, sweet smells of the jungle's flora not yet cloying. I can't remember the last time I actually watched a sunrise -- before May, probably, like everything else -- but I'm struck with the sudden urge to, now, and I don't fight it. Following my feet down to the south eastern shore, I climb up one of my favorite trees, the one with this neat little perch that provides an unhindered view of the horizon, and watch as the rising sun slowly paints the sky pink and orange and the palest blue. It's bright and beautiful, and for the first time in months, I'm finally seeing color. I almost kick myself for not remembering my camera, but then I decide this is the kind of thing best viewed outside of a lens, anyway.
I'm constantly surrounded by reminders of how fickle life is. How fragile. MJ and Johnny's disappearances. Tony and Wolverine's poisonings. Jessica's injuries and the whole of Rapture. Kendra Shaw and Duo Maxwell. Norman. If my weekend spent as a blissfully ignorant teenager drove anything home, it's that it's a miracle I made this far, and I've been drowning in too much grief and anger and hate to appreciate it. Today, though, it's like coming up for air. Maybe not for long, but it's something. Mary Jane's absence remains a constant, gnawing sore, but today is something. Eyes forever on the sky, I stay up in the tree until my legs start to cramp a few hours later, flipping down onto the ground with a grace I've fought hard to relearn.
I made it thirty years. Let's see if I can't last another one.
I didn't disappear or explode or get shot down, a villain from my past hadn't showed up as a sick little birthday surprise, and, as far as I knew, the rest of the Island -- at least the ones who weren't regular night owls like yours truly -- had an uneventful night.
The morning proves similarly quiet. I slip out of the mansion at an ungodly hour, the crisp air of pre-dawn chilly through the thin, long-sleeved tee I opted to wear. It's kind of nice in that it reminds me a little of New York, the humidity of the day not yet overwhelming, the deep, sweet smells of the jungle's flora not yet cloying. I can't remember the last time I actually watched a sunrise -- before May, probably, like everything else -- but I'm struck with the sudden urge to, now, and I don't fight it. Following my feet down to the south eastern shore, I climb up one of my favorite trees, the one with this neat little perch that provides an unhindered view of the horizon, and watch as the rising sun slowly paints the sky pink and orange and the palest blue. It's bright and beautiful, and for the first time in months, I'm finally seeing color. I almost kick myself for not remembering my camera, but then I decide this is the kind of thing best viewed outside of a lens, anyway.
I'm constantly surrounded by reminders of how fickle life is. How fragile. MJ and Johnny's disappearances. Tony and Wolverine's poisonings. Jessica's injuries and the whole of Rapture. Kendra Shaw and Duo Maxwell. Norman. If my weekend spent as a blissfully ignorant teenager drove anything home, it's that it's a miracle I made this far, and I've been drowning in too much grief and anger and hate to appreciate it. Today, though, it's like coming up for air. Maybe not for long, but it's something. Mary Jane's absence remains a constant, gnawing sore, but today is something. Eyes forever on the sky, I stay up in the tree until my legs start to cramp a few hours later, flipping down onto the ground with a grace I've fought hard to relearn.
I made it thirty years. Let's see if I can't last another one.