thirteen

It’s a Sunday. The weekend has come and gone, but I’m tipsy from a bottle of £5 wine and the night feels infinite. It’s almost summer and I’ll never be young again. I miss something. I miss her.

She, the true child of the internet, her world in ten-hour screen times. In the early hours, she’s watching Dan and Phil videos, scrolling through Johnlock Tumblr blogs. Maybe she’ll get a camera and press record, captioning posts with cryptic Paramore lyrics. She probably entered this digital realm a little prematurely, where bodies are laid bare and everyone drinks Diet Coke. Here, she’s an aspiring poet – Savannah Brown’s verses reblogged onto her dash. She’ll spread the revelations of gods dwelling not in paintings, but in the chaos of cluttered rooms and the solace of brisk walks.

because we’ll someday ache for any regular sunday in june where the sun was a sure thing and breath tasted like warm grass and there was not a single indication that the cosmos would one day shut like your eyes, tight with pleasure.

- Savannah Brown, the universe may stop expanding in five billion years

She learns the art of lowercase prose (a habit I haven’t quite kicked) and signs her missives with a white heart. She’ll preach that music sounds better on vinyl – it has this nostalgic feeling – even if it costs 20 quid for an album she’s only going to play on a shitty briefcase record player. She takes those Buzzfeed quizzes. Which Harry Potter character is your best friend? Take this quiz and find out! Would Dan Howell date you? View your results here! She’ll retake them again, and again, and again, until she’s a Ravenclaw and married to Matty Healy. She’ll share photos of American Apparel girls and beg her mum for one of those Brandy Melville alien t-shirts.

She feels. She’s in love with everyone. Her first kiss was within the pages of a self-insert fanfiction. He gently brushed her hair behind her ear in the way she liked. Her favourite colour is love and her favourite food is heartbreak, a feast that leaves her both empty and full. She’s angry at everything. She’s political. She’s a feminist. She finds solace in sad ukulele songs about unrequited crushes on close friends.

The world is so big and she’s learning that all at once. It’s a revelation both overwhelming and invigorating. How remarkable, she muses, that a mere internet connection can serve as a gateway to every corner of the globe and every soul within it. When she grows up, she’s going to visit them all. In her vision of adulthood, she’s staying at Maisie’s house and watching Ryan Ross edits on her iPad until 3 AM. She’s going to travel the world and her Twitter timeline. She’s ambitious. I think I’m most jealous of her for that. Everything seems so much smaller now, suffocating in its familiarity.

She knows everything, convinced of her grasp on the world’s complexities. I’ll offer a knowing shake of my head as she passionately defends opinions destined for swift abandonment. It’s during these interludes that her resentment peaks, as I indulge in nostalgic reflection, accompanied by a soft chuckle at the folly of her convictions. She bristles when her youth is equated with ignorance. She’s never wrong, but neither am I. Constantly locked in a silent battle of wills. Maybe I’ll concede, allowing her the illusion of victory, knowing full well that time will eventually soften her stance.

When confronted with the question of my favourite writer, my mind inevitably drifts to her – my thirteen-year-old self, steadfast in her allegiance to Pete Wentz. But I’ll probably say Joan Didion. When asked about current reads, I won’t mention that Archive of Our Own is open in a private browser window, instead opting for the respectable veneer of a Lynne Tillman novel. She’s ashamed of me, as I am of her. Our philosophical musings are found within the pages of fanfiction and our literary classics languish on the shelves of HMV.

Sometimes, I think I stopped growing at thirteen. Most days, I’ll meet her in the mirror’s gaze: severe parting, a siege of acne, untamed brows, and round cheeks. I am her, and she is me – a continuum of existence, a lineage of self. She laid the foundation upon which I tread, and I, in turn, have sculpted upon her essence. I am her mother, and she is mine. She loves me, yet resents me, as I do her.

- The 1975, ‘Robbers’ (this music video was my entire personality at thirteen)

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a short piece that i mostly wrote after a couple glasses of wine and am only just getting around to posting now that my exams are over. i think i’m going to start uploading shorter, pre-written pieces amidst my longer, more thought out essays. i’m conscious that my substack is becoming a place for deep, kind of depressing essays and i don’t want to start feeling restricted.