If ever I once knew, I've since forgotten what poetry is like. Sometimes the lines write themselves in my head but perpetually they refuse to crystalize into any form more tangible. They prefer the amorphous, uncaptured state that leaves me dreaming but ultimately unsatisfied.
It's 2012 and either the world will end, or we will be forced to keep on living. Is it so horrid a prospect? There is much to live for, I discovered last year, if I can see past the blinders of depression. The sun (so says Annie) will come out tomorrow.
Here is our brand new year full of brand new opportunities. It is much like last year, say the cynics. Nothing will change, except foolish optimists will once again find their views tempered by reality. You are yourself and you won't ever be anyone else - and that's true, isn't it? You can never be anything more or anything less than yourself. But perhaps we can change the borders with which we define ourselves.
My past few years have been emotional roller coasters, but predictable ones: I know I will go up; I know I will come down. The past couple months, on the other hand, have held strangely steady. I can't help but be afraid of the inevitable change, the other shoe dropping, because happiness is too lofty, too rarefied, a goal - I don't believe I can achieve it or, if I do, hold onto it. If I am happy now, it must be fleeting.
I suppose it is something like the poetry that floats through my head at times.
Yet I am tentatively hopeful that I can write again this year, that I will; I am tentatively hopeful I can live, and be happy, and that somehow the new year will in fact herald new beginnings. I will ultimately be always myself, but maybe this year, my self can find, reach, keep happiness.
It's not a terrible thing to wish.
It is a far better thing to make it so.
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