I have not written anything in a while, with the exception of last week’s obligatory year-end entry and a lot of work-related e-mails which although are very straightforward still puts me so ill at ease. I always vow to write some more, but I never do (mentally adding that to the absurdly long list of my self-disappointments) (and then reminding myself that I very recently declared that I am without regrets). I have stayed true to this mantra (no regrets) thus far, and would make all sorts of silly attempts to maintain it this coming year. I ascertained that making a new years resolution and sticking to it will help carry said mantra on to 2014. Except I’m bad with resolutions. I’m bad with goals, and plans, and commitments or anything that slightly ensures success, for that matter.
However, a long list is typing urgently in my head in the form of a migraine. Pounding, tick tock tick tock, reminding me that today, of all days, is a good day to make a promise.
To be better.
To be brave/r.
To live louder.
To write more.
To get published.
To start playing the piano again.
To journey in the direction of my fear.
To do the things I have been itching to do for so long, but couldn't find the courage, or the time to do so. But I reminded myself that I have not written anything in a while, but that I just wrote an entry again today (although in haste and while thinking: just get this over with), taking baby steps into wherever it is that I have to go. So this year, I aim for something small. Something within the realms of possibility.
I simply vow to read more poetry.