April 16th, 2025

I spent the night before my birthday drinking moscato, facetiming a stranger, doing a word search and watching a Van Gogh film. Willem Dafoe is on my screen but I hear the words of Sylvia Plath spilling out of my collected works book on my nightstand.

I fall asleep to Nude by Radiohead and I listen to the Sufjan Stevens record for the first time since I bought it 3 months ago. I needed familiarity so I called a friend at 3 am. I didn’t tell her it was my birthday. I chose to ignore it, linger in the silence of unspoken truth. We talked about her work crush and my inability to develop something greater than simplistic feelings.

In my dream I’m crawling out of the yellow wallpaper, but my spirit is stuck between the walls somewhere. When I wake up my walls are beige.

It’s the official day of my birth, the year in which I turn 23. The last year before I reach my mid 20’s. Why did that day suck? Was it my ongoing disappointment of not being greater? Was it the break in routine? The friendly ghost of exemption? The fear to keep dreaming?

My mother took me out for lunch to shift my mood that I couldn’t shake. It worked for about an hour until I ended up back in the same state. My brother gifted me Horchata and took me to a bookstore which gave me euphoria. We came home and the four of us; my father, my mother, my brother and I ate earl grey cake. Subtle and sophisticated, my favorite.

I think the night before set the tone for my birthday, the sudden loneliness of being in your 20s especially as someone who chooses not to party; someone who is content in solitude. The moon has been my brightest star, the light that remains and brightens the night. The one gifting me the milk of curiosity, sweet and warm. Putting me to sleep like a spoonful of honey.