I do not want to turn eighteen.

I would love to say I’m not the kind of person who mourns their childhood, but in a world that tells you it only gets harder as you grow older, it’s impossible to be anything else.

The last time that I enjoyed growing up was when I turned fourteen. My seventeenth birthday was only fun because I decided to use it as a tribute to the nearing death of my childhood.

I went to Chuck E. Cheese. And no, that’s not a joke. I went, and loved it. Being way too old for everything there alongside my friends was more fun than anything I could’ve thought of. 

It doesn’t help that I’m so in tune with my childish interests. Cartoons and figurines and origins of fairy tale lore have always fascinated me, and will continue to well into the future.

It’s weird knowing that I’m stepping into the same bubble that all the adults in my life have walked so comfortably through. 

I don’t want a birthday party, I don’t wanna grow up, I don’t want to be eighteen. I don’t want to be told I’m ‘too old’ for something. I don’t wanna leave anything behind.

I’ve seen so many baby pictures of myself recently, ones I didn’t even know existed. 

It’s insane that one day, pictures of me at seventeen will feel the same as staring at myself swimming in a t-shirt after a summer day camp at the age of seven.

Change has always been a huge struggle for me. Even when the change was needed, even when it was better. I’d always yearn for the comfort of everything I’ve ever known.

But this feels deeper than nostalgia, this feels like something I’m meant to resist. 

But I can’t. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t stop time. Either you start running, or you get left behind.

But it’d be nice if I could freeze the world for a while.