Dear Wisdom,

I don’t think that it possible to write a memoir at 17

but if I had to, I would tell you that my life is nothing special.

Just a bunch of memories jumbled up, blending into one big blur

of feelings and words that either broke me apart

or put me back together. The connection of two planets colliding

the way I wanted to collide into faith, driving aimlessly in reverse.

The hardest part of not knowing who you are is the anticipation, choosing

a name and a cover that would suffice. The past is my dark passenger. I realized that photographs never change, only the people inside of them.

When I woke up this morning it felt like everything was falling apart.

My life flickering by like the flame of a dying lighter.

Taking advantage of the sunny fields that stood frozen

in the snow and blossomed in the spring. Living on the edge of life

without boundaries. Reaching up, hands breathing through the air from a sunroof,

I touched the smallest part of heaven. I realized that these were the best lives that we were ever going to get. Driving away from the city skyline, the lights illuminating the clarity that was in front of me the whole time. Like being speechless in front of an empty audience, I finally found all of the right words to say. And I don’t think that it is possible to write a memoir at 17, or at 34, or at 68 or at any age. Life continues to spin at full speed and the only thing humanity can take out of it are moments that gave meaning or took the meaning away.

Best Regards,

Amanda Clark