I wanted to sit down and write something about this year. Because everything changed—my job, my home, my body, my health, my life. Everything changed. Instead, I’ve spent the day with a sick stomach, sick at myself for what I have not accomplished. I am disappointed.
Recently, I’ve tried to stop letting myself believe in signs, stop looking at things like the changing of a calendar year as a milestone. Days like today are the reason why. A year is an artificial scope, so promising yourself that something significant will have occurred when you wake up in the morning and you have to go out and buy a new calendar—the expectation is unrealistic.
Identity is cumulative. So is success, and so is failure. I will be the same person tomorrow that I am today. I still haven’t figured out how I feel about her.
M
