For the past ten years, on every birthday, I would sit down, mostly at midnight because that’s when the gods descend, and write the most beautiful piece of content I can imagine. Some I published online, some I didn’t.
In 2023, I wrote a story about a birthday drama from a decade ago.
In 2024, I wrote a sarcastic but true piece about the day I was born.
Every year, I return to these pieces and read them one after the other. And every year, I feel something close to tears. Not because I’m being emotional, and certainly not because there’s some hidden wisdom in them, there usually isn’t. But because the writing is so good, I’d be so pissed not to be ME if I were YOU.
This year is different. It’s 3 p.m. I missed the midnight ritual and kept the gods waiting. They probably sighed in disappointment, but still left a few gifts at my door, generous as always, ‘cos I’m their favorite.
So here I am, staring at a blank notion page, kinda struggling with the direction to take.
“What do you think I should write about?“ I asked Mimie. She’s usually good with these ideas.
“You could write about the fact that nothing changes as you grow older”, she said.
“So you mean I’m still the same dumb kid you met years ago?“ I gaslighted.
“No. Not from that perspective… It’s more like…”
“You know…” I cut in.
“A lot changed“, I said. “In fact, everything changed“.
She smiled. “Well, there you go. Write about that.”
“But I don’t want to write about that…” I muttered.
Mimie gave up and drifted back into her world as she unpacked the two million gifts she got for me. And as she did, I slipped into my head and into this endless abyss of what this piece could be about.
I could write about 50 things I’ve learned in 50 years. You know, like those cringy LinkedIn posts. And when you ask, “Are you 50?” I’d answer yes, because I’ve been here before I was born.
I could write a graceful reflection about how life has been good, while vividly describing my view from this 30th floor. You’d never know if 30th is because I’m in a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a skyline that makes you believe in God… or if it’s my age, and the “view” is just me looking back at everything I’ve climbed over, walked past, or pretended not to see.
I could write a 5,000-word novel just hyping myself up, talking about how nobody came from where I came from and did it like I did it. Or I could write a 5,000-word self-drag, pointing out that the reason nobody did it like I did it is because I did a terrible job. Because I fumbled the bag so many times, I should’ve gotten a sponsorship from a bag company.
I could write an open letter to God about my gratitude. But why would I do that? When I could just go inside a room, lock the door, turn off the lights, and cry to him instead, which I already did.
I could write about the fact that I got the best birthday gift this year. Not the kind you can post on social media with a caption and a hashtag, but the kind that makes you pause, grin to yourself, and think, yeah, life isn’t so bad after all. The kind of gift that feels less like an object and more like a statement, that you’re seen, that you’re valued, that someone went out of their way to put a smile on your face.
I could write about how, eleven years ago, I told myself to buy Ray-Bans because the future was too bright, and how I promised myself I’d retire by this age. What a funny kid I was.
I could write about my life as a movie, but complicate it so much you wouldn’t know if it’s a comedy, thriller, sci-fi, suspense, or just one of those films written by someone high on something but somehow gets a 100% score on Rotten Tomatoes.
I could write about how I’m getting close to 40, and how I have to figure out how not to be a fool anymore, because a fool at 40 is…
I could write about all these sweet birthday messages I’ve been getting, which make me go, “Oh see, I’m not a piece of shit after all.” Then I could instantly become a piece of shit by replying, “Do you mean this message you just sent or ChatGPT wrote it???”. Hahahahahahahaha
I could write about how this is my first birthday as a dad. How it feels like a blast. How nothing prepares you for this particular kind of joy, the kind that makes your own birthday feel like a side quest.
I could write about anything.
I could write about nothing.
Or I could just write about all the things I could write about.
Because that’s the fun of this birthday ritual: the choice, the freedom, and the absurdity of trying to capture a life in one birthday post. The world is mine. I can do whatever I want. It’s my birthday. And today, I just wanted to write something.
“Hey birthday boy! Did you figure out what you wanted to write?” Mimie asked, breaking my thoughts.
“Ha,” I said, “I’m actually done.”
Happy birthday to me 🙂