next
I don't know. Addressing a year in a violent and untoward manner, like it personally chose to make you stale, idle and brittle, seems really obnoxious. Today is the last day of this year, and I will kill the histrionics. Curtailing my habit of speaking to deceptively animate, inanimate things like inexact and exact measures of time, my naturally limp body parts and dead white men authors may just be the best first thing I could do in anticipation of a next year. The best second thing would be to do away with the wiping-the-slate-clean thinking, fully harnessed by torpedoes of burn-all-my-bridges-and-may-the-fire-light-the-way emotion. In the absence of these spit-fire objects would be the best third thing, really, the best thing of all.
Lord, let me carry all my problems, insecurities and fuck-ups into the new year. Let that battle that tugs at all my ends wage longer. Let me remember, and always, that I still have a long way to go.
Lord, let me carry all my problems, insecurities and fuck-ups into the new year. Let that battle that tugs at all my ends wage longer. Let me remember, and always, that I still have a long way to go.