Ridiculous

But I’m not seventeen

My phone has been perpetually shuffling through my collection of Ingrid Michaelson songs for days and days now. Late nights awake sniffling, the all-too familiar scent of cherry menthol cough drops, cup after cup of hot tea, and the first really chilly mornings of the season have created the most perfect atmosphere where Ingrid seems to be my only helpful remedy. And today as I woke up with my voice and a much cleaner head, I’m thankful Ingrid did her job to make life a little less miserable. And I guess four days of antibiotics didn’t hurt. I snagged a table in a crowded building. I’m drinking coffee, reading Montaigne, and productively spending my time before class. Still shuffling, my headphones pulled me away from Montaigne and coffee and ballpoint pens and sleep-deprieved people living off of a familiar coffee buzz, wearing backpacks and the heavy weight of exams and papers and expectations and what sometimes feels like the whole world. And for a few moments, I’m in a large room with a stage and lights and people who clap along. People who sing along. And with the badaba badaba badababadabadabada I remember I’m twenty years old, no longer seventeen, standing next to Victoria, singing amidst a crowd and its beautiful energy, unaware and unconcerned about what it would feel like to be twenty years old or thirty-four or sixty-nine or eighty-seven or what it would feel like to not be at all.

If I was 17 I could find it in-between
The cushions of somebody’s couch
I could find it. I could find it
If I was 17 I could find it in a dream
A dime a dozen kind of love
I could find it. I could find it
But I’m not 17 and I lost it in-between
The birthday cakes and fast mistakes
That roll by

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