They say that the new year provides a much-awaited new beginning.
That I should take a deep breath and resolve
Not to let the failures of the past year demoralize,
Nor the prizes already attained induce arrogance.
I’m calling bullshit.
Starting is my strong point. I have
A finger in every pie, avoiding being bloated by only
Taking a bite of each, the mottled colours
Turning my fingers black. I
Tumble without resistance for a stranger’s teasing wink, brazenly
Leaving the broken heart of my lover
on the floor with nothing but evasive
Promises and awkward half
Truths,
Stepping away with the resolve that this
Next one will be the right one. When my feet are
Weighed down by half-written
Assignments and idealized projects that are starting to lose their
Shimmer, I
Stretch out my hands to
Receive, for the
Adrenaline and variety to
Spice up my too-variegated life.
I do not wish for a new beginning.
I live again every time I take a breath.
I want to finally, truthfully finish something.
I write stories that end haphazardly because I can’t be bothered to
Wrap them up with care.
I run from the slightest hint of reciprocation.
I drop a project the moment it doesn’t sound as good as the ones in my mind’s eye.
I’m tired of having opportunities I’ve grabbed hang around,
Unwelcome guests that have long overstayed their welcome.
I am done with completing drudgery at the last minute whilst
My passions
Fly by
Simply because I don’t have a deadline for them.
I want to finish something, and
Cradle it in my hands, even if
It doesn’t look as good as it did when I thought of it.
I don’t want to start living in reality instead of my ideas.
But I do want to launch my ideas past the
Barrier of my mind,
Laugh as they come out a little deformed, and love them anyway.
I want to get back in the saddle and
Ride out the bucks,
Driving myself onwards without repentance for egos damaged,
Even if they are mine.
Therefore, my resolution is to go through with what I’ve started.
I will let the past echoes of words written sing through my fingers,
Tremble my bones, and
Shake my handwriting.
I will plant my feet into the ground and
Kiss my lover with the sort of finality that would have me packing a bag to flee in the night.
I will not let myself get bogged down by what I’ve started,
and refuse to organise new things till I’ve cleared what’s on my plate.
People will wonder what happened to me.
Wonder why someone usually overflowing with ideas suddenly has
Nothing new going on,
Why I’ve become boring.
Why I’m talking about things I’ve mentioned before.
But perhaps that’s what you have to do to finish something,
And by finishing them, my guests find
Life of their own that doesn’t siphon off mine, only
Visiting me sometimes just to catch up, before
Returning to their own homes that the both of us built together.
Then, like I’m so used to,
I will start over.
But unlike before,
I will not be running.
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