growing up by alexandra grosso 24/7 by kameron westbrooke

24/7 by kameron westbrooke

49//Experience UP by alexandra grosso growing up is a f i ck l e illusionist, tricking the mind into believing that a soul ages with time and wrinkles with memory, yet in sixteen years i haven’t lost my taste for sweet watermelon lollipops, the sensation of sinking my toes into summer sand, a dash resulting in crisp wind whipping into burning lungs, and there’s not a sidewalk puddle that i don’t ache to pounce in. it’s as though suddenly the passionate life of adolescence turns to watered down recollection buried behind the shelves in closets hidden by new possessions. the meaning of growing up has shifted, becoming something like moon phases to satisfy our craving for validation in the form of proven measures of growth. when we’re younger, growing up means peeking our heads above ruler ticks to be able to ride the ferris wheel at the state fair, hiding teeth under pillows and watching new white inch its way into our mouths, and the gradual decrease in the amount of “cannots” and “not old enough’s yet” we heard from our adults. now, growing up is a middle f i n g e r to those same adults. it’s in the foggy windows in the back seats of that new boy’s car or the sting of clear f i r e sliding down our throats, and there’s not enough mango vapor in the world to prove that every cannot is a meaningless obstacle in the path to an adulthood that is somehow the enemy of parents and teachers and authority f i g u r e s. once innocent desire for aging turns to spite and a cravingfor a new freedom that is sandwiched between paper bills and fake IDs. like somehow the idea of “adult” will perfume from the ashes of each broken rule and latch itself onto the hems of our petite shorts. its funny to see how we’ve changed and yet haven’t changed at all. every bone in our bodies has ached and do ache to feel older, and the need we feel to prove our maturity has only morphed, from f i r s t looking at the gentle new dips and curves on our skin, to cramming it down the throats of adults. we’ve run and we’ve played and used step stools to reach the bathroom sink, and then we traded childish pasttimes for a more grown up step stool, a rocket to launch us into our adulthood in the form of drinking and trying and buying. we want an illusory thing, and we’ve always done so by trading, bartering our young souls for an old one, to wear like a skin-tight dress. but i think we’re more made of puzzle pieces than evolution: every single piece of us, the things we’ve done and did, are all attached to form the strands of our soul’s DNA. we are not continuously new byproducts of growth, new people with each candle blown out on a birthday cake, but instead within us our souls like Russian nesting dolls: one within the next within the next, that still love the taste of sweet watermelon lollipops, ust as they do the taste of a f i r s t kiss. growth is a thing achieved by every soul in us harmoniously humming the tune of a new desire, a new want, a new goal, not a device by which to s a c r i f i c e our old onesies for crop tops and skinny jeans. learning holds the baby’s soft hands and kisses into existence a new layer of thicker skin. we are just as similar to our old selves as we are different, as, after all, every single breath we’ve ever taken has been inhaled from different air by the same lungs. growing