witches don't age

My, my. I am turning twenty-three soon. 

This is meant to be my golden year. See for yourself: 

1+9+0+4+2+0+0+2 = 9 

2+0+2+5 = 9 

Let me be clear - this is not my first rodeo, I am fairly certain about that. 

I seem to have been here before. Sun-kissed; sealed with a kiss on an envelope; vagabond on a hunt for the ocean; prying for prey and lurking within the shadows of a tree; soft as the pearls of white sand; sharp as a blade - all teeth and claws; witch in the clouds searing, burning, blazing like chem trails; leaving the dull sun behind, I invite you to be blinded by my light. 

Touch me. 

And I will melt through the hourglass. Time is irrelevant to me. It flows, it does. But how can I know where? Sometime last year, I read about the concept of a skeptical hypothesis. Allow me to explain it to you. It dictates a scenario wherein one is radically deceived about the world. 

EXCEPT!

One’s experience remains entirely indistinguishable from reality. A common example is as follows:

• Premise 1: If I know that I have hands, then I KNOW THAT I AM NOT a brain in a vat.

• Premise 2: I DO NOT KNOW that I am not a brain in a vat.

• Conclusion: Therefore, I DO NOT KNOW that I have hands.

I look at my hands now. They could be paws too. 

Can I curl up like a black cat on the magician’s windowsill again? Next to potions and cauldrons dissolving into cures and elixirs.

Anyway, I know neither that I have hands nor that I am not a brain in a vat. What, then? 

I wish to be everything — a coalescing enigma of all my past lives. To never return, to become stardust and evaporate within the endless vacuum. But that is unlikely. The more I learn, the more I realize how much I have to learn. It is exciting, yet exhausting. 

Colorful patterns, underscored by a shadow of reality. Circular, motionless, spirals, cubes, and vertices. Find me now or lose me forever. Who knows what I will be next?

Yet… despite the extreme gravitas of life, I laugh. I may have been here before, but it was never really me, now was it? It was a fleeting glint of my soul, scattered across benches under the cooling shade of branching fig trees, within the hearts of stealthy leopards and deep lakes, at the icy tips of mountains, and in the shallow pits of volcanoes teetering towards insanity. 

So this year and any other that may come after this, I choose to be endless. Immortal in the gratitude of this life, etched in the memories of others (ones that I cannot see, nor ever remember), limitless and entirely abundant. 

Why? 

For witches don’t age.