The more I dwell, the more I find how sweeping maturity is.
It’s not attached to a specific age. I’ve witnessed my
at-the-time 9-year-old, spry, silly, distant cousin embody more maturity in her
words and actions than my mother. One’s subconsciously exhibiting rare forms of
maturity. The other, my mother, is choosing to abandon her filter. She damn
well knows she’s speaking out of line. And yet, I find maturity in that silent
admittance to immaturity.
It’s forever fluctuating, evolving, moving like an in-between
state of matter. It’s not quite liquid, not quite solid. It’s malleable—very
malleable. Kind of makes me think of the goo I wanted for Christmas a decade
ago. My mom’s goo was much more sophisticated back when I was too young to know
the difference. Now, that goo has reached diva status. (I envision pink sparkly
goo with a fabulous sun hat.)
I blame pecuniary issues that most Americans would love to
have.
It cannot be defined in a single sentence. And if it is,
that sentence is a total run on. Like, marathon worthy.
It cannot be defined in a single blog post, by a single
person, at a single moment in time. Sometimes I think it’s as unknown as space,
but maybe I’m just a novice.
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