On Turning 27

Twenty Seven, funny old age isn't it?

Sorry for the nonchalant yet slightly awkward comedian entree into this blog post. I turned 27 on the 28th July of this wonderful year of weird weather and.... watching many a TV series and drinking rum. *coughs*

This seems to be a something of a core year within our culture; I am of course talking about the 27 club, which refers to popular musicians who died far too young and far too talented to go. The beautiful and beehived Amy Winehouse being the most recent member, she apparently quit the drugs only to dragged down by the clawed skeletal hand of an eating disorder that had kept her shackled for years. We also know how the story ends for the pained and pleading eyed Cobain, the verbose and bloated Morrison and of the mystery surrounding the dark eyed, swoonsome and self destructive Richey Edwards. 

All 27, all at a turning point in their careers; some were being crushed by the media attention and the demand for more, more, more. More songs, more stories, more shocks, more publicity.Others were being ridiculed, jeered and viewed as a joke; a caricature of something once awe inspiring and true.There were opportunities to continue into the light, into the stars and become bigger, better, bolder. There were chances to redeem themselves, come back to their fans and the critics, perhaps not as they once were, but something more raw, honest, and inspirational. Hell, they could have just gone and made some (more) babies, settled down and lived out their years quietly embracing their creativity in their own ways. Instead they died. What more was inside them? What more should have, could have, been seen or heard and embraced for its genius?

A few years from 30, an age at which many have settled down with children, a serious partner or husband/wife, 27 is also still flirting with 25, an age where many of us are still partying and unsure where we want to be or what we want to do with our lives. It is the middle ground between confused arrogance and acceptance, where we still believe somewhere deep inside that we are special and important. It is a time where we still desperately claw for what we want, for who we want to be, and where we want to go in our glittering future, before the real world grabs us kicking and screaming into the mundane. It is an age of jaded hope, of cynical dreams, of... any other relevant fucking oxymoron you can think of. 

It is a strange age for sure, and one that requires a lot of thought to ensure I make the right choices that are good for my life; where I want to be, both in career and location, and who I want to be with before it is too late. We can't fuck up now, not when we are so close to being truly brilliant.

Then again, I did just read on Twitter that 30 is the new 10. So technically I am fine for another 17 years. Is that right? God my maths is shit. *drinks rum and puts The Killing Season II on*

Moving on...