2021 was a year of sadness and loss and a reconsideration of things.
It was the year our homes become our prisons.
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.
March was unquiet sleep and learning to like the rain. I read too little, and met a guy with violet eyes and a cigarette on his lips.
April was flowers and too-many-pink candles on my birthday cake(s).
May was silent. I made new friends – but we were torn apart by the virus.
June was looking back and erasing moments of hurt.
July was for being on the stage after so long.
In August I travelled and went mountain climbing and fell asleep on silent sea-shores with half-read books as a blanket.
September was for releasing my new book.
October was about being lost in an artistic haze, almost kisses, and whispers and guys with dark eyes and half-moon smiles.
November was uncertainty and a fixed smile and lying awake counting how many light-years we are apart.
December was living in a haze, a state of constant numbness. Lying came easily (Yes, I’m ok. I’m fine, I’m fine. Always fine.)
2021 was another year of grey skies, fervent dreams and night escapes.
But I found my voice, I screamed, I demanded what was mine.
And I found out I’m immune to bullies’ hate. I just laughed at them; you can’t hurt me anymore.
2022 is for writing more and making choices… It’s for creating something lasting out of the ashes and the dust that I’m left with. It’s for ripping apart my list of things that could-have-happened, facing the cold light and actually trying to make new a future.
It’s for stitching dreams with rose petals using starlight as thread. Hoping, always hoping…