Once I heard that every seven years your body replaces all of its cells, so one day I will become something that you’ve never even held. That sounds like poetry but I’m basing this on fact. Well…. ‘fact’ is a little loose. You’ve probably heard the cell thing before, but it’s not exactly true. Seven years is just a rough estimation of a cell’s lifecycle, and that was ripped off of Discovery.com. I can’t be bothered to read the whole article, but that sounds legit, right?
If it isn’t clear already, science was never really my thing. I was more of an english and theatre girl. So, if you’re talking cells, I’m talking block tango. If I was a betting girl (I’m not), I’d sum it up to say that our bodies are constantly dying (they are) and being reborn (how exciting). Also, it’s worth noting that seven seems to be the magic number for both credit scores and cell reproduction, don’t question it, just accept it.
If I did happen to be a betting girl, I’d wager that if you wait patiently, you can become an entirely new person.
The lifecycle of a chronic believer.
This always brought comfort whenever something bad would happen to me; that it wasn’t a part of me forever. I wouldn’t be stuck serving a life sentence with that storyline. Maybe i’d have to carry it for seven years like some weird curse; a bout of broken mirror bad luck, but after that? Good riddance. After that, we get to cleanse ourselves. I always talk about purity… you know I don’t like feeling dirty. Continually shedding people, places and events - versions of us only known a few seven-years-ago. Models of me that were only real a few seven-years-ago.
Constantly killing off and summoning new designs of the same person, call it murder suicide.
While I wait, I’m left splitting custody of what has now become part of me. Divvying out pieces to people who touched my memories. Placing painful pictures in boxes, tossing necklaces off balconies and deciding who gets to keep the color green. Forgo the niceties but how did you trademark the color of my own eyes? Selling old dresses on the internet, throwing lipstick in trashcans, forgetting trophies in basements. Old me, new me, all different redesigns of the same mind.
In seven years, I will never think about this again.
In seven years, I will be someone different.
In seven years… seven years is a long time, isn’t it?
A few seven years ago, I posted “A wild thing may say wild things” but it turns out wild things just wanted to be kept. Most of those girls wouldn’t have ended up in their cells in the first place if that could have been the case.
Enhance your reading experience with today’s Blog pairing menu:
Catchy tune: Touch Myself by The Genitorturers
lil’ Snack: Homemade Snickerdoodles