I just went back and read a poem that I wrote in January and I'm struck with that particular kind of nostalgia when you are not unhappy with where you are right now, but realizing how much time has passed and how long ago this time last year was kind of makes you want to throw up at the same time. I'm so happy. 2014, especially the second half, was one of the best years I've ever had the privilege of living through. And it only looks like it'll get better in 2015. But there's a certain heaviness in the finality of it all. At this time last year, I didn't know where I was going to college, I didn't know that I was capable of directing a play, I didn't really know the boy that I love now, I didn't know so many people that I love now, I wasn't unhappy, but I didn't know just how happy I was capable of being. That was only 11 months ago, but the me who wrote those poems then feels so foreign. I wonder if that is what growing up is? I don't feel as though I know much more about the world and how to take it on, but I do know more about myself. At almost nineteen, I feel less of the drama of coming of age that I felt so profoundly at almost eighteen. Instead it feels like a steady ebb and flow. Some days I feel so sure and so steady and some days I remember that I don't know shit, but neither day is the end of the world. I think that's what this year changed for me. I realized that it's not the end of the world. Terrible, horrible things happen to beautiful, wonderful people, and life goes on. Small scale tragedies, big scale tragedies, life goes on. And in the particular case of 2014, it goes on in fantastic ways.