It’s an awful kind of funny looking back to December. I distinctly remember announcing that 2016 was going to be my year. The best year of my life and then some. I remember saying it so clearly, on New Year’s Eve with glossy eyes and freshly coloured hair, not a drop of alcohol in my system. I said I was going to be happier than I ever had been, and I’d finally get my license so I could drive the road to success.
Plans change pretty fucking quickly, huh?
So it’s September now. This year has been a hoot *infamous eye roll*. I cried my guts out through my mouth and sent all my tears to mars on a spaceship so they might find some water. I completely three-sixtied in a bout of vertigo and got in a lot of debt. I spent a lot of time in depression so deep I came down with chronic vitamin d deficiency and forgot how the sun felt on my naked skin. I forgot I even had skin ’cause some days I felt scaley or feathery or all covered in slime.
May was the turning point, my breaking point. Couldn’t manage another day in the darkest, heaviest depths of the ocean. I couldn’t breath anymore. I couldn’t go visit my best friend without apparent reason. Couldn’t reconnect with a remarkable someone. Couldn’t call my parents without guilt. So I cut all the ribbons in my way with a new pair of hairdressing shears and spent a night looking at the sky.
I’ve noticed floaters in my vision as of late. I’m not concerned. It’s just the jelly in my eyeball pulling away from the retina and getting a little confused. I think it means something other than my ageing.
I don’t wanna say “I regret….” ’cause I don’t like the idea of it. Seems a pointless place of worry, and I’ve already paid the mortgage to my home in WorryTown, got a spare set of keys but no one wants the weight in their pocket. Or the pusheen keychain they’re tethered to. It’s giving me crows feet and frown lines but I’m not going grey yet and that’s a damn shame. I’m just angry at myself for being so soft instead of letting my hard exterior reign supreme.
Were I a man I’d have more of a backbone I guess. Perhaps I’d have had the courage to put my foot down sooner and squash all the bugs threatening to crawl up my trouser leg. Then again, maybe not. And really, I doubt it would have made a difference. But if it did maybe I wouldn’t have these moments to cherish now. Or maybe I’d have found them sooner. In retrospect I know I would have though I’m a little too weak to accept that. Guess I’ll just be picking slaters and weird, wiggly creatures from my clothes for a while.
Would’a, should’a, could’a.
I’ve found so many things I thought I’d lost. Like my old 35mm Minolta and the prints I made when I was in highschool.
Like writing. Can’t believe I left it for so long, I just couldn’t risk it being read. I kept all my disappointment buried so deep it started gnawing at my organs until I complained of chest, stomach and back pain. Being honest on paper is so much easier than voicing it audibly.
Thought I’d lost something else just as special a long, long time ago. Turns out that was just temporarily misplaced, too. But not like the keys my mother ‘misplaced’ eight months passed, they’re gone for good. I am so thankful that I found my key at long last. Better late than never but it gave me time to grow up and learn to drive better.
I’ve always looked to the future for happiness rather than looking in the past or the mirror. There is so much more there. I can feel it right down to my bones. My very atoms are crying out for the year to close.
My every 11:11, my every shooting star, my every birthday candle wish are grounded in the days passing by as fast as lightening strikes the earth and retracts again. If I could press a button to skip the rest of this year I would. I’m click, click, clickkkking the skip chapter button on a remote I found in my bedroom and sobbing pleas out loud. Time is torturous. It seems to move in slow motion when I’m sprinting down the highway to my future.
I’m still convinced that my endless running is better than standing still. But I’m not sure it’s making me actually move any faster.
November is the month after next and it’s my birthday month. Can’t wait to be twenty-two. Won’t have a party or celebration and I’ll spend the night alone in my bed. No man to take me to the moon or attempt to bake me a cake. No one’s here. I’m a hopeless poet with hopeful visions painted on my eyelids.
Guaranteed there’ll be a piece worth grimacing at published here on my little corner of the Internet. Guaranteed it’ll be me trying to draw a picture filled with wishes when all I’ll really be pining for in that moment is a kiss.
I have this unexplainable deep seated feeling that something big is supposed to happen. Like maybe next year will be the year. Double numbers are supposed to be lucky, right? So perhaps when I’m twenty-two the world will implode. No, wait. My world will implode and reborn from the ashes will be this sensational new globe and I’ll hop on a plane where my future awaits.