“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.”
― T.S. Eliot
2016 was loss and apathy and too much distance from the stars. It was heartache, and sadness, and a reconsideration of things.
In January, I made no resolutions. I just wanted to watch the rain, lose myself in gossamer dreams and find myself again among the waves of an almost-stormy sea.
February was cold. Snowflakes fell off my eyes and broke into million fragments of unrequited wishes.
Then a colourful carnival came in March and new friends followed.
And I also met a guy with blue eyes and a cigarette between his fingers – you don’t talk, he said. Ask me, I said. And I’ll tell you all about the world, about us and every single star.
April was filled with flowers and a cake with maybe-too-many-pink candles.
May was about being lost in an artistic haze, almost kisses, and whispers and guys with dark eyes and half-moon smiles.
June was looking back and erasing moments of hurt.
July was too hot, I swallowed truths and dusty dreams with iced-tea. I’m such a coward sometimes.
In August I travelled and went mountain climbing and fell asleep on silent sea-shores with half-read books as a blanket.