On Hope As Rebellion

I am not upset at growing older. I feel as though I have won each of my years from an unwilling benefactor, wrestled them from the giant's grasp, stolen them from Father Time.

Each day is an accidental miracle. Each month is a tricky victory. Each year, a gift that I've struggled to give myself. I will not be made to feel guilty for what I have taken from life, for the youth I have left behind, for the way my body has begun to creak with all of the signs of use. I am certain that some days did not want me to keep waking. And yet my eyelids still open with the barest whisper saying:

I am still here.
I am still curious.
I am still learning.
I am still becoming.

And that is the closest to hope that I have felt in a long time.