And then, all at once, it was too much

17. It is what I will be.

Something about birthdays makes me sentimental in a way that should not be okay.

Temporal: that is what I am.
17: that is what I will be.

At the risk of sounding more pretentious, a haiku:

Des nuages qui flottent / dehors, dans la tempête, là / sont comme mes pensées

"The clouds that float / outside, in the tempest, there / are like my thoughts."

But, as a friend so dearly (and poignantly) reminded me, "The birds still sing in the rain."