She’s on the go with no road home–no end destination, afraid she’ll turn to stone. 

I want to grow up, not grow old. I want to mature and be less childish, not pay taxes or complain about back pain. The tip of my pencil needs to stay sharp, and the eraser needs to be plentiful. As I grow up, I want to learn from my lessons and document the once-in-a-lifetime experience here on Earth. 

There’s so much–just too much for a fragile fourteen-year-old who’s only a few weeks from fifteen. In a few years, that almost fifteen-year-old will be an almost eighteen-year-old debating on what college she wants to attend to spend her last four years of school. That eighteen-year-old will then turn to a twenty-one-year-old, and then to a thirty-nine-year-old celebrating her last day before turning forty. The list grows as the years become less and less, and the pencil dulls along with the eraser.

I’m young, and I cherish that terribly for when I grow old and quite possibly turn to stone. There’s a fog valiantly fighting for dominance in my field of vision. With no real sight to begin with, I’m scared that the train inside my brain won’t fight the fog that’s shielding my sight, and the train won’t be on its track.

When the fog rises, somebody sighs and it’s no longer in disguise.

I’m on the verge of fifteen, and this is me fighting the fog that’s prevented me from experiencing the moments that I’m scared I’ll never be able to enjoy. 

Soon to be fifteen and I’m scared that I’ll crumble–disappear–into unrecognizable particles for the guilt I have caused myself. I’ll crumble at the sight of another Instagram post wishing I was there, or at the thought that this could have been me if it weren’t for the fog fidgeting with the tracks.

I wish the fog would dissipate into the air so I can live a weightless, fulfilling life. 

When I’m that eighteen-year-old stressing over college applications, I’ll be wishing I wasn’t. When I’m that twenty-one-year-old, I’ll be wishing I was eighteen, and the same when I’m a day shy of turning forty. 

One day, all I’m going to have are the memories I created for myself, and the experiences I need to live.

When I’m old, there will be nothing left. The sick awakening and the somber hours, the free life I imagined living is no longer on my tracks. The train keeping me fast has taken too long and the opportunities have passed. 

I’m scared to waste away in a cubicle the color of my fears, and behind a computer screen letting the blue light fuel the fog.

When my soul cries out for the last time, will I turn to stone?