At eighteen I find myself on the cusp.
No derivatives here, just mystery and uncertainty.
The verge of extreme change:
Loneliness, infinity,
Anticipatory anxiety.

Dialectical thinking tells me it can’t be all bad.
Places barred to me before open their doors.
Discovering entrances I thought were bookshelves,
Trapdoors appear in every floor.
Leaving my childhood behind,
The lock clicks as I pass through.

I see how I was through shuttered windows.
Peering in, I’m an intruder to the past.
A fireplace fueled with my abandoned dreams,
Even from afar I can hear the crackling,
The cackling of irrational possibility.
It’s easy to get lost in memories of empty armchairs,
Of long nights spent in adjacent realities ,
Of failed plans and how things were supposed to be.

Yet new achievements frame the walls.
I have goals in life I never imagined.
Unearthed integral pieces of my person.
I’ve done things I once thought were impossible:
Putting tables on ceilings and toasters in bathtubs,
Dividing by zero.

The future spreads out before me.
A tablecloth of opportunity
Offering only what isn’t threadbare and stained.
This limit is a relief,
My choices have narrowed:
Subtracting fear, adding understanding.
I never thought I’d make it past 16.