old beginnings

feels like new year doesn’t feel new unless you kill off the self that inhabited previous times. but metaphorically. always metaphorically. 

there’s chirping in my room and i don’t know where it’s coming from. surrounded by plants i don’t know how to care for and stuck inside a self that’s half way between here and there.

i thought we were going to leave the rhyme schemes in 2018.


i started the new year in the worst possible way. and it’s hard not to feel a sense of loss when you end the year in a worse place than you started it. something slipped outta my fingertips and i know it’s not my fault but there’s so much pressure to start things Right.

write your lists, set those intentions, don’t worry about the follow through just get through the first day.

crying in my wardrobe.

it’s 11pm and then 2am

and you’re in a new cycle but still stuck motionless in the same bed

doesn’t really feel like anything’s changed

and how do you recover when you fuck up the start of the next 365 days?

reassure yourself that time is an illusion and the 1st is just an arbitrary date and you’ve got the lunar new year so just pretend this one was a practice run, doesn’t matter in the end.

and you don’t go on that run you promised yourself you’d take at 6am. sleep in, eat leftovers instead of fruit because the first thing you eat in the new year does not dictate how your diet ends up. enough with these superstitions. 

the universe is not keeping a journal of your movements today. be messy. there’s no grand conspiracy holding you accountable for being an ordinary human.

you can sulk. forget about the future for a while.

but make sure you text back your friend when she asks how you are; now is not the time to isolate yourself.

you don’t need to write in your journal if you don’t feel like it. just make sure you’re not keeping it all inside. 

there’s later, there’s always later.

go slow.

wake up the next day.

and then the next.

don’t look at the calendar just keep waking up

and before you know it it’s okay.

you’re not tied to that same self and you never were, never will be

By em

a sometimes poet, sometimes painter, always philosopher

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