soft, cyclical new year

i’m sitting on the couch in the house that we’ve made ours. a new mug in my hand, sipping christmas coffee on january second. my cat is sleeping next to me. i got my hair cut this morning. it feels good to be alive.

the new year came suddenly and then slowly and then softly. i panicked last minute, finding my way home in the dark. i knew where i needed to be and for once i acted on the thought. in savannah we drank prosecco out of pink wine glasses and i watched my best friends bang pots and pans in the street as midnight passed. no lips around to kiss, but maybe that’s a good omen. i’m reversing the meaning of everything.

to be honest, i’m out of practice, writing like this. last winter i used to sit at our old kitchen counter and work through everything i had ever felt on the page. it was all a diary entry, it was all a confession. or maybe something of a sermon. this was how i survived — some fruitless attempt to analyze my own heartbreak. to become the preacher instead of the damned. but i no longer have a kitchen counter, or even a dining table. i drink my coffee on the couch and try to force the words out. where writing used to feel like a release, it now feels like an exercise. what can i say without dredging up something i worked so hard to bury? what am i without the pain that shaped my own voice?

i spent a lot of the past year acting out of uncertainty, then rebellion. i had fun out of spite, i kissed people out of desperation. i needed to move the storyline along. i tried to make new memories, to tip the scales, but you can’t force emotional weight where there is none. sometimes the feeling never goes away. i learned to be grateful, yes. i made a life for myself that i think is more beautiful, yes. it all worked out eventually. but i’m not sure i succeeded where i intended to. i’m not sure i ever wanted to succeed in the first place.

on new year’s eve we played one of those question games. they’re my favorite because i get too competitive otherwise, but i’m good at telling the truth. one of the questions read, “would you rather lose all your friends or all your memories?” i chose the latter.

still, i think of all the things i didn’t know this time last year. like how to write a good essay and the lyrics to that big thief song. what it means to love and let go. to let things slowly soften instead of forcing them into some box. you’re gonna get over it someday, might as well get over it now. but taking my time felt worthwhile. i don’t think i’ll ever stop having dreams about it, but maybe that’s my way of keeping the memory alive. i don’t actually have to choose. i don’t have to lose the things that i don’t want to.

i want to be more conscious this year. more certain. learn when to say yes and when to say no. i want to be earnest and genuine and sincere. maybe last year i would’ve declared that i was going to write more, or that i was going to be a better person by some arbitrary metric. but this year i’m letting go of my grip on the cycles. sure, maybe that means i’ll keep having dreams about people i used to love. that i’ll keep drinking my coffee on an empty stomach, eating breakfast at 2pm even when i get so dizzy i can barely stand. i’ll keep cutting my hair short and letting it grow out again. i just want it all to move with grace. maybe it’s my hopeless optimism, but i think what’s meant to be will be. for now, everything is just enough for me.