Recurring milestones have a way of gauging how far you've come.
Every new year when the ball drops and the countdown begins, so comes a recollection of the years before. Each is a frozen encapsulation of a time, a place, a moment signifying progression: girlfriends dressed to the nines in a confetti wash, slow dances with a man, pot and pan clanging in pajamas and bare feet with cousins, falling asleep against a friend on the floor as the ball drops on screen.
It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how despondently a girl sees a year come to a close; how she feels as if she were dismissing some portion of herself into the muddled myst of memory. Yet, I have nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess that no year, as of yet, has seen so much growth than this past one. Twenty four sent me into a tailspin, plunging this tantalized small-town dreamer into the throng of a professional, downtown scene. and in this year a girl became a woman.
I'm compelled, however, to speak not of the past, but of what is to come. For now that I've flown, walking makes me restless. And now that I've sprouted wings, I must learn how to fly.
I love change. the alteration of a common course of action dishevels the stagnation of redundancy and ripples through all components of everyday life. And as I stand at the crux of such a catalyst, this new year, I've been given a new start, a fresh page, a blank staff. It's an opportunity to start anew, to relinquish the old self and begin again.
Twenty five is the start of a new me. A bold me. A daring me. An honest me. I will stop scolding myself for missing personal publishing deadlines. I will write for me, just for me. I'll go with my gut. I will date men, not boys. I'll learn to love the wretched havoc that is monday morning. I will row to Antelope Island. I'll successfully grow herbs. I'll learn yoga and take indoor cycling classes. I will see the northern lights. I will apply to graduate school. I'll move to Boston or New York or Chicago. I will see more of the ocean. I'll pick up the violin again. I'll get a dog. I'll finish that damn novel. I will cross the lines I drew in my early twenties. I'll embrace my vulnerabilities. And I will learn the slow, elegant art of living.
I'm compelled, however, to speak not of the past, but of what is to come. For now that I've flown, walking makes me restless. And now that I've sprouted wings, I must learn how to fly.
I love change. the alteration of a common course of action dishevels the stagnation of redundancy and ripples through all components of everyday life. And as I stand at the crux of such a catalyst, this new year, I've been given a new start, a fresh page, a blank staff. It's an opportunity to start anew, to relinquish the old self and begin again.
Twenty five is the start of a new me. A bold me. A daring me. An honest me. I will stop scolding myself for missing personal publishing deadlines. I will write for me, just for me. I'll go with my gut. I will date men, not boys. I'll learn to love the wretched havoc that is monday morning. I will row to Antelope Island. I'll successfully grow herbs. I'll learn yoga and take indoor cycling classes. I will see the northern lights. I will apply to graduate school. I'll move to Boston or New York or Chicago. I will see more of the ocean. I'll pick up the violin again. I'll get a dog. I'll finish that damn novel. I will cross the lines I drew in my early twenties. I'll embrace my vulnerabilities. And I will learn the slow, elegant art of living.
Looking forward to a year like this as well!
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