27/04/1995

Birthdays hold significance. At least some do. I feel that, as I push my fingers down into the carpet. My drawings are still there. On the wall. Small scribbles, smiley faces and stars, they are faded. Bleached lighter with the passing of the years and the sun. I always thought that the space under-the-stairs was my own, a hidey hole for my secret thoughts and things, shared only with a friend. Words have been bleached too, changed ; at least my interpretation of those words has. Like the word friend. Friend is now a different word, with a different meaning than that of a decade ago. At six, the world had a magic sheen, a lustre. I could see the magic behind a fragment of broken blue bottle glass, a piece of foil. Books still hold that magic. So happy Sixteenth Birthday to me, and may everything change again and again and again.