Verse 57
At twenty-nine I thought adulthood would arrive like software finishing an update.
At twenty-nine I thought adulthood would arrive like software finishing an update.
Instead the rent increased, my back hurt once for no reason, and three friends got divorced.
Someone told me it was my Saturn return. I told them my landlord had a more convincing orbit.
Still, the timing amused me.
I had spent years keeping every option open until the options became clutter.
Choosing one road felt like murdering the others.
Then I noticed unchosen roads die anyway.
I quit a job I hated and discovered freedom also sends invoices.
I called my father and understood, for the first time, how young he had been while pretending to know things.
That frightened me more than getting older.
The mirror changed slowly enough that vanity could negotiate with it.
My ambitions became less cinematic and more specific.
I stopped wanting to be impressive to people I would avoid at a party.
A small apartment, good tools, honest work, two friends who answer: this began to sound rich.
Discipline stopped feeling like punishment once I chose what it protected.
Some doors closed. The room became easier to furnish.
I still do stupid things, but now some of them have calendars.
If Saturn is maturity, maturity is mostly discovering that consequences were not a rumor.
I do not feel old.
I feel edited.
Maybe that is enough for one orbit.
I will report again around sixty, assuming the landlord permits it.
Until then, I am keeping fewer promises and breaking fewer of them.
My younger self would call this boring.
I wish him well.