I’m twenty-one and I’m still a foetus
I was born into this world twenty one years ago but
I haven’t been born into myself yet
I’m still a womb, carrying this person
Who is yet to be me.
I’m twenty-one and the only thing I know
Is that I don’t
I know that perhaps no one ever has known
No one ever will.
I’m twenty-one and I have stopped filling in answers
To life’s every question. To the word question itself
Facts have become questions
Questions have become facts
In their permanence. In their omnipresence.
I haven’t been born into myself yet.
At twenty-one I’m still a foetus.
I think maybe I need a hiatus.
I’m twenty-one and love is not a word I use anymore
Intimacy is only anticipation
And heaven is always just out of reach
Love is being in limbo.
Like the foetus which is in-between life and non-life
Like Schrödinger’s Cat which is in-between death and non-death
Like me, at twenty-one.
I’m twenty-one and I’m afraid of death
I think that is because I’m not born yet
To be alive is to be ready for death any moment
I cling to life like a foetus clings to the womb that nourishes it
Only when it let goes is it born
Maybe to be born is to die in one sense.
So what do I wait for? Death or Life?
I’m twenty-one and I haven’t got a clue.
All I know is this – my water has broken.
The labour pains have begun.