Deep, Silent, Complete.

Today is my birthday. Today I cease to be a teenager. My heart is rent, O kind keepers of my decaying age, as this decade tumbles to a close. Perhaps this is a luxury I can ill afford: nostalgia is an accoutrement purchasable only by those who have a few more scores of years in the purses of their minds and bodies. But this decade has been so tumultous, in its variance, how like man! In its hesitance, how like a fallen angel! The story of my teenage years is a story that spans three glorious cities, one vast ocean and packs within it multitudes of dreams and characters who had their entrances and their exits: some who I wished would never leave and others whose backs I was only too glad to see! Dream! How like a dream it does seem!

From a drama-ridden gremlin of 13, quick to tears and suicide threats, I have been moulded into a man. But what man? The sense of drama has not been lost, if anything, it has become more subtle- a far cry from the 'bleeding stump' wailings of a 13 year old voice of unstable pitch and loudness. The dress, the bearings, the carriage, the accent, the speech- all the marks of a man, a grown man who understands his place in the world. But do I, really? The magic has now begun to fade...Read on as I talk of love, regret and solace.

I found love twice in this decade. My First Great Love, my lovely Isobel Ingoldsethorpe, was the Zaara to my Veer. Sure, we may have been of opposed nations, but that didn't stop a life-long friendship to blossom into love. I was never more happy than when I was with her, yet, I was a mere 15 and, when things began to get serious, I withdrew as ungallantly as anyone ever did. Lady Isobel and I could have had a future together, as the years would have passed, our love would have only intensified. I forsook that virtuous diamond! I left that rubicund Rose of Lancaster to wither, as she eventually retreated into Lancastrian folds. [I am not going to phrase this in terms of world affairs as they stand now. It somehow seems appropriate to fashion this as a tale of courtly romance]. I was a fool not to see it, the fact that I could have been happy, despite what anyone would have said! Of course, popular support turned against me and My erstwhile Lady's friends' displeasure manifested itself in several, excruciatingly vocal ways. I will not soon forget the cold animosity that existed between Maraguerite D'Anjou (a close friend of My Lady) and me- animosity that made my 'A' Level year quite hellish at times.

My 18th year saw me return to my Yorkist homeland, where I was as miserable as an exile. Yet, in a moment of play-acting and patriotism did I pass this sentence upon myself. I was too much of a stranger to those lands: they wanted none to do with me nor I with them. Yet, a lot of good came from this migration: I met my spritely Punjaban and I could carve myself a path into the Newe Worlde and potential peace. It was during this time of upheaval whence I struck up a dalliance with the lovely, yet desperately lonely, Katharine of Aragon. While I languished in my Yorkist prison of spring, My Lady lived in a rain-drenched city of her own. Yes, A Long Distance Relationship fraught with frustration and drama, and drenched with tears. Suffice it to say, it ended badly. I was at fault again. We are friends, though, my goodly Katharine and I, but we all know what that means...

Now, at 20, I have many joys to behold: Santiago, the best room-mate in the realm; Hamlet, my soul-brother; Lyra and Prince Stepan, who I love dearly despite not knowing them long; Punjaban and Masakalli who are the sun and the moon to this piece of earth that is my body; Charles Ryder, who enchants and delights with his quick wit and clever quirks; Verlaine, my Official Best Friend who carries a piece of my soul with him; Signior Benedict, who is in possession of another bit of my soul, for he built me up when I was down...There are many others who I have not mentioned, but love just as fondly. My relationship with Prince Hal, my real brother, has lost its acrimony and has become one of mutual respect. I am a good son.

But, today, I shall finally come up and embrace the facts that I will never be a doctor or a man of letters. Given that I lacked the courage to make such major changes in my seemingly perfect life, I had always hoped for an omen or a portent that would compel me to. None came, and 'tis just as well. Mayhap, I shall never be good boyfriend material: my humours are too mutable, too unstable. I shall relinquish my idylls of Courtly Romance to the jaded generation after me that needs these more than ever. Now, at 20, I shall finally step through the mirror into the Real World and embrace as if it were my own. Evading it seems stupid now, at this age, the sparkles are dull in their twinkles- a sure sign to me that they were only of my imagining: no-one will give up these honours and start from scratch. No-one shall be whisked away by love. No magic. And, as I burn away the ambrosia of these fairy toys, these antique fables, I shall, in the words of the King I fashion myself after, 'forget what I have been, Or not remember what I must be now!' Nay, not the latter, it sounds too fantastical, too much of a conjuring humour. After all, At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at a score it is too late a week:

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.