||[Jan. 13th, 2006|12:25 am]
Another schrimage between ruffled papers and the bangle of wood against turqouise bracelets. A pencil of darken heritage sits in hesitation between short fingers. Damn pencils. I opt for a pen, blue in colour, ball point in make. The pencil rolls rejected to the edge of desk, teetering until my puff of air sends it over the edge. No need for pencils. Permenance in ink.|
Resolutions impossible. They are simply a pretense of hope, an idea that yearns to take a substantial shape and scramble into existence. A glimmer of what is wanted. A hint of what is needed.
Resolutions are secrets between the holder and what is possible. Words that hang as a savoury edible that cannot be digested due to the simple fact that resolutions are merely words. Letters shoved up next to eachother with a probable space jumping in at the opportune moment. Forming a phrase that leaves an empty satisfaction of what may or may not happen. I push resolutions to the side, and with an exhalation throw them into incineration. Permenately abolished.
My pen scratches softly against soft grained paper, my neat aristocratic handwriting swirling and dotting and slashing with theatric flairs of those who are prone to dramatic entreaties. Gentle breath warms the too cold air as letters rise to dance a preview of what is to come in the yawning year.
I am both invisible and invincible, using my faults as a shield against what I fear, or merely believe I fear as I do not challenge what I wish I fear. It's easier to claim fear then to charge into the hells of bitterness, rage, and hurt. So I claim fear, though I fear nothing, and am able to hide behind fears that are not fears but merely excuses masquarading as fears.
I claim no resolutions. Resolutions are merely words, promising promises, hoping hopes, fearing fear. I don't want words. I want substance.
Thus this year, I know I will meet rejection. I will face rejection, I will step into rejection, I will embrace rejection. For if I have already meet rejection, I can stop pretending to fear the onslaught of rejection.
Thus this year, I know I will meet ambition. I will gather ambition to my chest, holding it, smothering it, killing it, and finally burying it into the depths of my inner being. For if ambition is already dead within me, I can stop pretending to fear the drive of ambition.
Thus this year, I know I will meet pain. I will fall face first into the pools of pain, letting it sweep around my body, weighing me down and drowning in the sorrows that swirl and froth and grind against my mind. For if pain already took my body, I can stop pretending to fear the wholeness of pain.
And so it begins. The promises, the hopes, the fears. I will do this, and that is not a resolution. I am beyond resolutions. The pen continues to scratch, digging into paper and thoughts.
My resolution this year is to make no resolutions. I shall instead acheive.