Always, begin again. Slowly, quietly, with hope.
The past twelve months, how many? Count them and name them one by one: January, February, March... More months than I have fingers, fewer memories than I have fingers. Let that sit.
"I know you're too busy for me..." It's a tease, but I text back quickly, "I'm bad at priorities!"
Last year's priorities: Sleeping. Dating, the dinner and a movie kind. Work. Finances (hahaha! but true.) Family. Not in that order. Maybe sometimes in that order.
Some shoulds and some YESES but mostly moving through the motions, the past twelve months.
Words in marker, written on white paper, taped to my wall.
Intentions. Hopes. Truths.
My best promises to myself usually involve less sleep and more caffeine. An irrational disregard for risk. Playlists on repeat and lists on the wall in marker. The hard, the messy, the impossible.
The years I remember best, I write the most. The best years I write the most, even in the worst years, which end up the best years.
"There are years that ask questions and years that answer." (Zora Neale Hurston) For the first time in over ten years, I have no idea whether the past year asked questions or gave answers. I haven't even thought about it. I hardly remember it.