Between the leavers books and last day photos,

where we stand pressed tight against each other

arms locked over rib-cages and shoulders

with smiles showing every tooth and crease

at the edges of of eyes,

we threw our ten year plans out like helicopter seeds,

their swirling fragile bodies caught up in our whirlwinds

so desperate to flee the school gates

to escape to the world lying beyond

where we would become doctors, architects, teachers,

opera singers, engineers, artists, and writers,

because thirty was a long way away

and we were all more than capable of closing the distance

between what we were and who we wanted to be.

Five years in at the halfway mark

I’m still spinning stories for strangers

who know my name and my words

but little more than that.

Plans of conquering my third novel by the time I such and such

have turned to

let’s just get this one finished for god’s sake please,

some time between the steps I’m climbing

one accountancy exam at a time

and the colours I’m aspiring to

one belt at a time

in the hopes that by the time I’m thirty

I’ll be more than just a writer

I’ll be more than just the person

who wanted nothing but her books.

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NaPoWriMo Day Eleven : “What does y(our) future provide?”