I’m stuck in a bad movie
That never ends
In which, the mother dies
and it never feels the same again.
2019 could be the year of annihilation. Or it can be the year of redemption. Or it can be the storm before the calm. Or it could be more of the same. Yet somehow it feels like I’m on the brink of disaster. I can’t say. I can’t trust anything anymore. Reality feels distorted. How can I be painfully cognizant of how much things have changed over the last 14 months and yet also be painfully tired of the sameness of the desolation inside my head. I’m unable to pull myself out of the monotony of a dutiful life and I’m unable to find the joy in the larger direction of my life.
So then perhaps 2019 is the year to look at the small stuff. To find peace in the moments between the ruckus and disquiet. That it won’t come easy is obviously and painfully apparent.
Perhaps 2019 is the year to not make any big decisions. Because nothing seems to be based on rational thought. There is only the wilderness of an emotionally bereft, winter-shorn forest inside. I feel strongly about one irrational idea and catapult to another, equally crazy, life-altering idea at the next instant. Anything seems like a possibility to remove the absolute sense of barrenness I feel. But it’s also filled with a sense of dread of oncoming desolation after. So no, 2019 is not about those decisions. It’s about breaking each component apart and seeing within and what meaning that brings to life. And how to rebuild it within those shards of meaning that may emerge out of the fractions that remain. So that’s what it’s about. The deconstruction and reconstruction of all that matters. Restitution.