So 16, and another stretching piece of fire to blow out as the wax crumbles onto previously perfect frosting. How old am I to get to discard so many candles? Too old it seems, life is half way over if you go by my plans, and even though dying at 32 seems juvenile, I no longer care.

When I was in elementary school, I wanted to move on, be sixteen, be that old. Now, the way I figure it, in another year it won't be acceptable for me to be immature, and savoring it is the best I can do.

16, and come fall I'll be filling out applications to college. Now I really am growing up too fast. Much to fast for almost everyone's preference. I shouldn't be graduating a year early being a summer birthday, and I shouldn't graduate high school with a year of college done. Yet I am, and why?
I don't know, maybe the ambitious part of me is back in fourth grade, wanting to grow up and move on. Or maybe because I want to test my limits strong enough to see if I can achieve my full potential at such a young age. Either way, birthdays make you think. They shouldn't of course, not until you're old and wondering why you're life has gone. But I'm young, and curious, and a part of me so desperately wants to be naïve again and have perfect plans that won't make me an awkward soul. An almost prodigy who never quite reached the level of genius.

A Thread of Grace by Mary Russel, and The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. The first of my gifts, not clothes or make-up or music, but literature. That's what I've been thriving off for so long though, it makes perfect sense. That's what my other gifts will be yet, but I want something more in a broader sense.

I want someone to look at me as an inspiration for writing, who when they start a new story think of how they want to be like me. Not fame or riches, but that sort of admiration which I dish out to fantastic authors now. I'm far from it, I know, my prose has weak spots and I'm still developing. Most people drop writing after sixteen, when it isn't as cool, isn't a burning passion.

I don't want to be like that though, because I haven't reached my goal. Or at least, I don't think I have. Whose life have I changed with writing? No one's. A girl told me today though, that when she was as old as me she wanted to write like me. I don't say this to brag, because for all I knew she was spewing it out to make my birthday nice, but wouldn't that be amazing if it was true? That simple comment, it made me feel so fantastic that you can't even manage.

A long time ago my goal was to be published by the time I was sixteen. Accomplished? Not really. The closest I've gotten was being accepted into my local community college's literary journal, but hey, maybe that's something.

Goals change, plans change. When I was thirteen I though I knew where I would go. My four year plan for high school was listed down course to course. Then I decided on a spur of the moment to go to another high school, because I never enjoy sticking to plans. Then I was going to get my AA degree at the time of graduation and now instead I'll just move graduation up. Academics have taken over, and I have to pause from time to time and think, is this really what I want?

Yes, because I've accepted that maybe I'll never get published, and maybe I'll never be love (Sweet sixteen and never been kissed), and maybe I won't even get the career of my choice. But I'm going to work myself dead till I have my Doctorates, even if I decide I don't want it in English. And I'll fight for the position of professor, and find someone, some person my age, that I can make an impact on.

Because the first ripple is glorious in what it can do. And even if I can only make a difference to one person, if they did more than me and I was responsible for something as glorious as The Sparrow, or something of Atwood's, I would be in ecstasy.

So I said I would stop posting here, but I think I need to get this out, because molten candles with no one to whisper the smoke too drives me nuts. So judge me, and don't give me con crit, but let me know that someone listened because in a way, even that's a small impact.

Do you care? Maybe not, but I think thats okay, because I still have time. I still have time as another birthday candle is added to the cake and a little bit of frosting goes with it.