In somber calm,

or sobering self-criticism

emerges

the serene clarity

of solitude

ineffable

open-wound

unsurmountable

shivering sad

indomitable

excruciating

fleeting

engulfing

fixating

unconsoled

desirous

aimless

nostalgic

inexplicable

Mothagesso.

I remember what the adults used to tell me,
that pleasant morsel of compliment I took and kept without ever opening it.

"You're very mature for your age."

I was supposed to be ahead of the game.
That's at least what I thought. Pretty immaturely.

Now there's no early bird special compliments to be had.
I'm still young, but now expected to be old and mature.

At the fence of youth to adulthood, at the end
of my career as a professional student that was so far predestined

I ask myself what it means to be mature. And old. Same difference.


Mothagesso.