new year of a writer
If you get real for a minute; the end of a year is like the rest of the year. You wake up with the same listlessness or enthusiasm of another day stretched out before you like a magic rug. And your rug morphs to reflect your insides. Some days it’s candy pink, smooth and sweet like a toddler’s tongue. Other days, its a tattered grey, a refugee’s scarf abandoned over a railway track.
What your eyes have seen, this week or twenty years ago, determines the day’s magic rug. And if you’re like me, the past could rear its head at any moment to sting all juice out of the present moment.
If I close my eyes and when I open them again, I turn into a basic life-lover, a person who has dreams that can this world can tangibly hand out, would life be any easier?
An entire day might glide by with the agenda of going shopping for fleece tights. My mind might never question the to and fro trips to the grocer, the milk shop, or the mall. I’d be…just a bag of bones wrapped in skin. A simple bag, a lovely bag. I’d find peace in buying feta cheese and making a proper salad. I’d enjoy buying that extra tube of gold lipstick just in case I get invited to a party. The purchase of a designer handbag would be a worthwhile treat.
There won’t be that nagging of ‘Now what? or worse, ‘Does this even matter? How?’ There’d be no ringing inside my head as I thrash…
