2024;

I often wonder if what I’ve built out of my life so far

as an enterprise of sorts,

29 years tall,

is any indicator of what I’m capable of accruing into

the future: the skills of communication and empathy,

and the “scenery,” especially.  Or maybe just capacity

in what I can see and how I can allow myself to feel.

What grows of me?

Out of whatever hole I’ve laid myself into, face down

staring at the soil vs. looking up at how I, as a part of 

of the big shout that is we, can consistently dethrone

any darkness.

I don’t want to win a lottery overnight, or pull the

cutest girl at the party through sets of unreserved

glances.  I just want to feel the little things as more

than just small particles that land upon me and go

unnoticed.

My resolution for 2024 is to get everyone to tell

me I’m ignorant to my own happiness until there’s

nothing left to do but see things differently.

These heavily-trained Rottweilers need to bite, not

bark, to stop showing me how deep I can dig the dirt

to hide things in or how far I can burrow down and

away: the matter of displacement.

Maybe then I can learn something about being

my own best friend.

­

Here’s to another cycle.

(I’ve been saying the same thing for months now.)