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  • At 4:17 on the first day of the new year I sat on my favorite bench and watched two swans, their reflections pale and rippled in the fading afternoon light.

    I cried.

    I nearly almost always do, the day after New Years. For some reason I always find myself waking up heartsick. I don't know why. Quite often, the first of January is a misplaced date for me, a quiet day spent navigating through a sinewy grey aura, the sense of having forgotten something. The stillness of the pond only makes my thoughts race faster, my heart pumping and doing its best to keep up as my feet melt the snow and my shoulders quiver with, with what?

    It's not sadness. I do not think it is sadness. But I have spent the past few years trying to give this emotion a name, and I have been unsuccessful. My parents cannot understand why I feel old, at twenty-one. Parts of me don't understand either.
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