A year is coming to an end, yet oddly, I feel no sadness in letting go. Maybe I’ve just been ready already. Ready to move, ready to be accountable.
But first, I must finish this. In peace, with friends in an unfamiliar land with the unfamiliar breeze. The trees remind me of home, but the sea smells like nothing. This is not home. Not yet.
I carry complicated feelings with me everywhere I go. My heart breaks with each day, but I must raise the strength to keep moving on my own. I cannot sit or sleep or cry or complain without feeling like a stranger in my own home. Is this what life is supposed to be like? It’s poetically tragic, these moments that come and go. The life I dreamed of as a child seems farther and farther away from reach, but maybe I’m closer to the truth now.
Where did all my enthusiasm go? Bring it back and make a charm of it for me, so that I may look at it and remember the world is mine. So that I might stop feeling so empty and like I’m embodying paucity itself.
That dream frightened me. I wish you were not in it. I think of the other way of life often, yearning for a little normalcy. But I realize this isn’t in the cards for me, but oh, what wonderful dreams. And oh, how it hurts me to let them all go.
The year ends on the bitter note of sickness. But at least I am warm and somewhat surrounded by love. What is somewhat? Just not what I am used to, or what I think I need. I see why people often look for things they once felt with their family. Those invisible things feel like home. It is familiar and easy. A glass of leftover homemade wine, maybe, and silent prayers as the fireworks begin.
Happy New Year.
Freewriting in this online space for the past one year has been immensely liberating. It has helped me see that I can write for myself and not worry about creating something perfect. It is me as I am, whether or not it makes sense and whether or not I am speaking fact or fiction.
I haven’t decided if I’ll continue this practice this year. Stay tuned.