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Volume 16, No. 13 - March 1, 2010
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-- Journals --
By Zach Brokenrope in BOSTON, Mass., U.S.A. – I never thought I’d make it to 20
years old.
I don’t really know why, but when I was younger I always felt like 20 was impossibly old. That is, of course, the wise position of a 13-year-old. I woke up on the last day of my teen years much like any other day. Sunlight filled my dorm room and I could hear my roommate in the shower singing along to his iPod. As usual, my room was messy and the previous night’s clothing was scattered across the room in pieces: a single shoe in one corner, its respective sock wrapped up in my faded blue jeans. Since my room gets unbearably hot at night, my bedroom window was open a crack and for a second I closed my eyes again and let the cold Boston air run across the curve of my checks and across my lips. It tasted a bit like steel and dried leaves, the crunchy kind that somehow manage to survive fall and into winter. On mornings like this, I can’t believe the life that I’m fortunate enough to lead. Read more
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