My birthday used to be a secret. I didn't tell people when it was because I wanted them to guess, and I knew they would. In my youth, I was arrogant enough to think it would matter. Or maybe deep down I already knew it didn't, but my cynicism was still in its infancy, and the thought was a mere whisper behind one of the many closed doors inside my head.
Today, it's mostly still a whisper, but it rages into a chorus from time to time. The closed door has multiplied, hinges rattling from the harsh mumbles that reiterate my inconsequence.
Today, I rebel by telling everyone when I was born. "October 13," I tell everyone who will listen. "I'm a libra," I add, as if the more other people know about me, the more I exist. The more I demand to be here. I'm like a toddler stomping on one foot, insisting people remember that thirty something years ago, I changed two people's lives and I was their joy, I was wanted, I was waited for.
Today, I hold on to that. Granted, it's not too much to hold on to. I could feel my fingers clamped on the back door, pushing, pulling, wondering how many seconds the world will stop when I slip out. I am no longer in my youth, but I guess I still have the arrogance in me to think that I would matter.
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