There is something about the number 27. For some reason or other, countless events have happened on this particular date, and even though, as my lovely colleagues promptly informed me when I mentioned my excitement at turning this particular age, there is something known as the 27 Club for all the famous people who coincidentally (???) died when they were 27, just this once, I refuse to let go of my silly superstition, and will keep believing that wonderful, memorable and life-changing things will happen to me (or rather, I’ll make them happen) in this year of years.
Never mind that I’ve had a zillion meaningful moments in my life so far scattered through the years in no particular order, or that I don’t really need a silly lucky-numbered birthday as an excuse to get off my butt and actually do all the things I have always dreamt of doing – mind tricks and ingrained beliefs can be powerfully things, and I am going to make the most of this one.
I am 27, and I’ll use it as an amulet, a sort of invincibility armour. I am 27! I will scream out loud, when I set a goal for myself and feel like I am not going to achieve it. I am 27, I will whisper to myself during those sleepless nights when I’m left wondering whether I am doing the best I possibly can to be happy. I am 27! I will think when I am absolutely scared shitless of what comes next.
So yes, I am 27, so I’ll listen to acoustic music and feel my heart move with every variation in sound, and my eyes tear up a little, I’ll start new projects and not accept, as is usual of me, finishing only a quarter of them, I’ll put my heart and soul into everything that’s important to me, after I understand what is important to me. I’ll live life slowly, and de-clutter it, inside and out. I’ll write wish lists on tiny patterned papers and I’ll stick them on a prominent spot so that I am constantly reminded of my goals, and can, with a certain sense of completely silly and childish pride, carefully cross each one out WHEN I achieve it.
I will be exactly who I want to be without ever caring about who everyone else wants me to be, and I’ll value time a little bit more, even if I’ll always consider oversleeping a luxury, not a waste. And I’ll fill my year with colour, and friends, old and new, and memories which, when I recall them through a photo, or a little trinket, or a song, will undo me from within every single time, and make me feel utterly and completely alive beyond the sum of the living cells in my body.
And I will write silly things like the above, because I love, and will always love, writing.
And while in pursuit of new things and new happiness, I will not forget to fix all the things which need fixing with my clumsy hands whose fingers are perpetually icy and red in the winter cold.
I am 27.
Happy Birthday to me.