Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • 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.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.