Preface:
My name is Russ Corder, and this is a diary of the greatest feat ever achieved by a young boy. Within these pages, I will document the prolonging of my twelfth year of life. Before I divulge the rather simple method by which I will do so, I must lend resolve to such a decision.
* there is no way that this plan is feasible. All of Russ’ attempts to reason with the future will end with the horror that he, in fact, is not immortal. The boy’s imagination is so fierce that even the transparency of logic is hidden within a narrator that is confined to these margined walls. Oh, miserable naivety.
My twelfth year championed curiosity above all things, like the writhing and twitching of the light bulbs in my room after raging thunderstorms spooked my brothers under their sheets. But I was not scared. I stayed up all night watching my front yard drown and float away. And it was this very year I pledged allegiance to the melodies of the greats, reciting the words of Otis Redding as gospel truth. Rhythm found its way into my fingertips, leaking out of my bones and snapping off of my wrists. And it was in such a year that I realized the currency of charm, all years previous were mere training wheels for the sweet afternoon that I weaseled out of the gallows, [correction: detention] plainly because of my freckled face and wide eyes. Let these days of youth stretch and hum, to die alone and never to be dirtied by the hands of teenaged oblivion.
* As we witness the melodrama of the emerging adolescent already in his reluctant protest, his plans are beginning to fail him before he has begun. The splendor of youth is an indulgence we are all afforded prematurely, before we can properly appreciate the uncomplicated existence of our childhood. And let it be known that the boy only uses such vocabulary to impress his readers, his speech is mostly polluted with swear words he has yet to know the meaning of.
Age produces an ugly cynic that looks something like my father. The defiant body slows and shrinks, while the belly swells and aches. And early signs begin en route to adulthood, where the purgatory of teenage-ism promises hair that will soon rudely take residence upon my upper lip and other places I wouldn’t care for. Who wants that? And what an age to be alive! Twelve, twelve, I will not stray. I will stay up with you all night and all day.
* here comes the “plan”
Precisely. Should I fight sleep on this eve of the day of my birth, and carry with me the same blinking eyes that held onto twelve for dear life, a new day could not proceed. It will not exist should I pay it no mind. I can muster a few more sleepless nights and rejoice in suspended innocence, still unscathed by the dread of the mechanical years that await me. I will unplug my clocks. I will operate on fine, granulated sugar and nothing else. I will dominate time and linger, at least for a little while. Genius, Russ!
* despite my better judgment, I’ll admit the boy, however foolish and backwards, has a lion’s heart. When most children hasten these days with longer sleeps, and an early affinity for dancing during night hours, young Russ’ calculated preservation of youth is something rare and beautiful. There is a radiant lightness in these days that most cannot see, it darkens about the time we count our birthdays on both fists. By old age, we’re walking around in the dark, as the curtain lifts only for the small truths, and sometimes not even then. He reveled in the lightness, however naïve, because his love of life only rivaled his fear of death by one great year. The twelfth. A few dozen popsicles and hours later found the boy snoozing in a chair. His best efforts lost to the beasts of unholy hours. He will soon wake to his twelfth year and a day with a coarse throat and a mournful smile. Happy birthday to you.
You will always be a 12-year-old boy. From: a 12-year-old girl.
