like that new book smell.
January 1st. The New Year.
The year starts in the middle of winter. A slushy, cold and apathetic season. I love winter, but only because I love snow and festivities. And snowboarding. And other things that come with snow. Sure things like no school and snow angels are nice, but what really gets me is that feeling - that brand new feeling where everything is new and flawless and ethereal. When snow coats everything and it's all undisturbed, like a comfortable silence that no one wants to break.
And then holidays, not because of presents, or no school, but because I love my family, and being able to hang out with them, and so much cheer. There's not enough happiness in the world, and I want it to stick around when it shows up every once in a while.
(You ever realize how pointless these are? I just ramble. I'll start talking about one thing, but by the end it makes no sense. Oh well, not like anyone reads them.)
But what I really consider the "new year" is the beginning of spring. Not like January when you realize, "Hey, it's the New Year," but when you look outside there's still slush on the ground and nothing on the trees. But that day where, all of a sudden you look around and really see and you realize, "Hey, the trees are budding," and the flowers are starting to grow back out of the ground, and it's sunny, and bright, and everything seems fresh. Everything seems delicate and new and it smells like life. Spring is like when I crack open a new notebook and breathe in the smell of the glue and the cardboard and ink; break out a pen and write my name on the inside cover, making it mine. 200 blank pieces of paper for my life story; for the stories of others - of Peace, Charlotte, Veronica. Of Andrew, Jake, Connor. Anything is possible.
But here's the reality: It only seems that way. I know that in time, the pages will wear out, doodles lining every margin and even whole pages. Papers ripped out to do homework on. And in the end, not much was actually used as intended.
Spring is like that, full of potential; untapped, then wasted. You have to grab hold of it. Start again. And don't let it get away.
Because once you write on that page, it's never coming off. And the possibilities, they're gone. The possibilities of new life, of a new beginning, of someone's story. Of telling a life's story, of ending one. It's going to be gone.
Like how spring changes to summer and it gets too hot to bear, and then fades away to fall and winter. It's gone. Years will come and go, and seasons cycle, and yes, there will be new possibilities, opportunities, potential. But life doesn't repeat itself. Every year is different from the next. Don't let it pass you by.
xoxo,
where I've always been.
The year starts in the middle of winter. A slushy, cold and apathetic season. I love winter, but only because I love snow and festivities. And snowboarding. And other things that come with snow. Sure things like no school and snow angels are nice, but what really gets me is that feeling - that brand new feeling where everything is new and flawless and ethereal. When snow coats everything and it's all undisturbed, like a comfortable silence that no one wants to break.
And then holidays, not because of presents, or no school, but because I love my family, and being able to hang out with them, and so much cheer. There's not enough happiness in the world, and I want it to stick around when it shows up every once in a while.
(You ever realize how pointless these are? I just ramble. I'll start talking about one thing, but by the end it makes no sense. Oh well, not like anyone reads them.)
But what I really consider the "new year" is the beginning of spring. Not like January when you realize, "Hey, it's the New Year," but when you look outside there's still slush on the ground and nothing on the trees. But that day where, all of a sudden you look around and really see and you realize, "Hey, the trees are budding," and the flowers are starting to grow back out of the ground, and it's sunny, and bright, and everything seems fresh. Everything seems delicate and new and it smells like life. Spring is like when I crack open a new notebook and breathe in the smell of the glue and the cardboard and ink; break out a pen and write my name on the inside cover, making it mine. 200 blank pieces of paper for my life story; for the stories of others - of Peace, Charlotte, Veronica. Of Andrew, Jake, Connor. Anything is possible.
But here's the reality: It only seems that way. I know that in time, the pages will wear out, doodles lining every margin and even whole pages. Papers ripped out to do homework on. And in the end, not much was actually used as intended.
Spring is like that, full of potential; untapped, then wasted. You have to grab hold of it. Start again. And don't let it get away.
Because once you write on that page, it's never coming off. And the possibilities, they're gone. The possibilities of new life, of a new beginning, of someone's story. Of telling a life's story, of ending one. It's going to be gone.
Like how spring changes to summer and it gets too hot to bear, and then fades away to fall and winter. It's gone. Years will come and go, and seasons cycle, and yes, there will be new possibilities, opportunities, potential. But life doesn't repeat itself. Every year is different from the next. Don't let it pass you by.
xoxo,
where I've always been.