Hard, compressed ice remembers the snow which once seemed timeless here at the Northern edge of South Korea. Then at the turn of March, it quickly melts, revealing rough dirt and reminding us soldiers here that time does, indeed, move. Every year, I turn a year older at this transition point: March 11th.
I used to cringe at the idea of celebrating this semi-fictional concept of "Birthdays". I'd pridefully note that one did not change just because a year was added to this arbitrary measurement tool. But as I turn 21, my self-imposed ideas on this step into adulthood feel inescapable. The number has gravity to it and it reminds me vicariously that my finite life goes on without the option to revert back in time. These 21 years will stick with me no matter what I do.
Risks have consequences and as my past solidifies, my future liquifies into volatility. Cliffs that I used to jump from seem steeper and I notice the pain of falling as if it was waiting for me at the bottom. Every decision feels more final than before and these words come out on paper with greater difficulty. The hard ice that once remembered my light snow-like youth has melted and dry ground stares back at me. It asks me, "Where are you, at 21?"