I haven't really been thinking about it much, but I have changed DRAMATICALLY in the past three years of my life. I was talking to my 7th grade English teacher, Mr. Trivas, asking how in the entire universe was I going to even attempt to write "my story." Do I even have a story? What the hell is my story?
I don't know what age we are when we truly understand that we die. We learn it early enough as fact, sure, as part of what happens on this human journey. And we go on to lose friends, relatives, teachers, icons. And still, it remains 'out there', removed, happening to other people, because we're still here.