:: Epitaph ::

My adolescence, as it turns out, was really nothing more than two large boxes of papers and three bags of oversized, out-of-fashion clothes.

"All yours. See what you want to do with it," my mother said, in a rare moment of paternal instruction, pointing to the debris of my almost-forgotten youth.

I spent an afternoon going through dog-earned worksheets and faded art pieces; I found harried notes, tired scribbles, earnest journals, the odd short story borne out my adolescent creativity, as well as quirky, pseudo-sentimental quotes I lifted off dated copies of Readers' Digest.

That sort of youth - my coursely educated, culturally-bankrupt pre-adult years - burned with a strange fire. It was as if I had mixed my various ambitions, ideals, wayward philosophies and a girlish want for love and validation into a crucible, hoping to create a mythical potion that would ward off pain, anger, misfortune and failure for when adulthood - a milestone that never was - would magically begin. I never did succeed, of course. But because I longed to try, I thrived with a certain electric energy, cackling with my adolescent efforts to win over the world.

Ten years of dreams in two huge boxes, and I spent one afternoon tearing them all up. I ripped away worksheets that had once tormented my schooling years; I destroyed the art pieces that I once bled my time for. I crushed up notes and random scribblings into paper balls; I packed half-used journals and exercise-books for the recycling bin.

And as I grimly tied up the last trash bag, ready to send the wreckage of that awkward, but genuine, age to its death, I struggled to think of a suitable epitaph for its passing. We have all written lines for the anthem of our doomed youth in our own ways; the immortality of childish recklessness didn't stop us from fearing its inevitable death. The lusty chorus of this anthem will follow us for a long time yet, and its melody will continue to haunt us with fresh nostalgia and honest regret each time we pack up another bagful shredded dream.

Apologies to Dickinson, but her lines came quicker than mine:

Because I could not stop for death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.