I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to file taxes or set up a meal plan. I’m still merely a child that looks up to the promised splendor of adulthood.

I’m not ready to make all my own decisions and save up for the future. I’m not ready to figure out what that future looks like.

Yet, time waits for no one and I’d be naive to think I would get the privilege of being an exception.

Time slogs onward, not giving a second thought to she who ponders over each action she has taken and is to take.

Time marches ahead, not turning back and consequently missing the opportunity to watch me trudge behind it, tripping every step of the way as my feet refuse to cooperate.

Time skips forward, not caring about the little girl on her desk who is desperate to try to control it and gain some jurisdiction over what she believes is in her domain.

And so, I am forced to slog, march, and skip to the tune time plays.

No matter how fast time runs, I must match it’s pace, lest I get left behind.

Now, the future I had perceived to be so far out of reach is walking to my doorstep, rather, I am walking to it’s doorstep as the version of myself which does not know how to file taxes, pay for groceries, or cook.

While I am not ready, time stops for no one and I am willing to flow with it as I learn how to “adult” as an adult, without rushing.

And one day, perhaps time will permit me to look back fondly on the memories I’ve made as a fumbling child, then teenager, and soon, adult.