painted letters // on new year's resolutions.

Then I saw the view, and I understood.

    I understood why it's harder to let go than I thought; just like new-year's resolutions are forgotten on January second unless they are painted in big, bold letters on a bedroom wall. And even then, it takes a truly willing spirit to try and comprehend those painted letters.

    Because sometimes I think I have it all. The full package. Everything I need. But the truth is, I don't. And I try, and try. And try. And I try until I've pulled out all the stops, and I don't know where to go next or even if there's another place to go at all. So I open my heart for a minute. Just a minute, and I let anything come in that wishes to. And mostly, I'm surprised by what shows up there.

    It's not me. It can't be, if it's new, can it?

The old thoughts have been thought before. They were helpful then, but I need something that's helpful now. I need new ideas and new plans and new ambitions. I've worn out the old ones. They remind me of my old life; my limited, boring little existence that led me here.

    I don't want to make any more mistakes, but I'll make them. And then I can laugh at myself because I'm free to do so. And then maybe I'll move up north and work in a minimum-wage coffee shop, with stories wafting around the room and snow falling as softly and as freely as I fell into my new life.

    Everyone's got painted letters. But mine can't say the same thing as anyone else's. If they did, I might as well be mourned and buried, my copied letters painted over.

    No. My painted letters have to scream my name and my imagination.

Then I walked away, the view in my mind's photo album and it's message painted on my bedroom wall. 



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