September 6th marks the 12783rd day she’s been breathing air, completing her 35th revolution around the sun.
A couple days ago a friend mentioned that all birthdays ending in 0 or 5 are significant.
Brain struggles to work right. Suffering the agony of impenetrable listlessness.
Yesterday another friend said that she ought to be out celebrating her life, not trapped in a cage of ennui incapable of leaving the darkness of her bedroom.
Fingers cramp more often – joints crackle – breasts heavier -white hairs infest.
Like holidays, birthdays force reflection. Friends make time when they otherwise might not. Forgotten family suddenly remembers. Strangers are strangely nice.
Shoulder hurts and it won’t stop making Dahlia anxious. Forced to wonder how she might continue this lifestyle if she’s falling apart already.
“I need to find new dangerous hobbies,” she says aloud to herself.