I'll be alright, but not tonight...

It is growing cold. Winter is putting footsteps in the meadow. What whiteness boasts that sun that comes into this forgotten city. One can see milk-colored maidens dancing on the petals of dead trees. How coldly burns our sun! One would say its rays of light are shards of snow, one imagines the sun lives upon a snow crested peak on this day. One would say she is a woman who wears a gown of winter frost that blinds the eyes. Helplessness has weakened me. Wandering has wearied my legs.

It's January and I'm kicking snow off my favorite winter boots. As I pass the hallway and step into the common room I see both of my dead plants, and I am reminded that I still have a lot to learn about life - how easily it can escape our grasp. I was supposed to handle everything with care, because I needed to learn how to be less careless, she said. Careless with things and people, around me and behind and I remember being still for just a second or two, thinking that it's so much easier to leave and start anew, than take care of what's already here. And then you step through the door. And you look me in the eyes and smile. It's worth it. It's really worth it.

Running out of time...

I have found that I will never be able to see clearly when people around me distort my view of truth with their own clouded version. I saw myself beginning to read into everything incorrectly and found myself lost in a delusional story stitched together from the crumbs of over analyzed words once spoken, misunderstandings or speculation. Life should not be wasted by collecting clues or piecing together a puzzle about how someone feels. Love is straightforward and it is clearly seen on the cloudiest days of your life. If someone loves you it will be obvious. They won't let you go, until you ask them to.

Blinded by the lights...

Trying to always do right...

All that I have managed to accomplish so far feels meaningless. As if I am stuck in a void of perpetual dissatisfaction. Disappointing the people around me when I succumb to my demons that whisper sweet melancholic thoughts of solitude. I always wonder how I manage to get myself tangled up in so many social webs, when in truth all I ever wanted was to be alone and write. Somehow, in an odd twist of fate, I am now here, in the middle of a brewing storm, with people looking to me for answers of shelter. How can I save other people, when I can't even save myself? And more importantly, how can I keep pretending to love them, when I don't even know what love is?

My descendancy...

An ember lighting up the dark...

Here's to the ones that we got,

cheers to the wish you were here, but you're not,

because the drinks bring back all the memories

of everything we've been through.

Toast to the ones here today.

Toast to the ones that we lost on the way,

because the drinks bring back all the memories,

and the memories bring back, 

memories bring back you.

Bleeding out the hunter...

When something you love dies, you are given the gift of a second chance. The eulogy is a reminder that the living can turn their lives around at any point. You're not bound by the past; that is who you used to be. You're reminded that your feelings are not who you are, but how you felt at that moment. Your bad choices defined you yesterday, but they are not who you are today. Your future doesn't have to travel the same path with the same people. You can start over. 

When something you love dies, you have the authority to leave things behind. You can enjoy not having to explain your feelings or actions or to justify why you have taken a different path. You don't have to put up with people that are insecure and want you to fail. All you have to do is walk forward with a positive outlook, and trust that the universe has a plan that is greater than the sorrow you left behind. The people of quality that were meant to be in your life won't need you to explain the beauty of your heart. They already understand what being human is - a roller coaster ride of emotions during rainstorms and sunshine, sprinkled with moments when you can almost reach the stars.

Go and raise your glass...

If anything, the only vow I am making, is to write more words that come as a result of my everlasting need to understand the woven strings of my life, and less fabrications from what I observe or read about. Not that there's anything wrong with that and I know it sounds ridiculous that the aim is to focus even more on myself, but actually that is the only thing I have authority over. And even that quite barely. Would be quite the travesty, wouldn't it? If I somehow failed even in this menial resolution? If this year finally proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am in fact, not a writer at all. Rather a false prophet. A pretender past his prime. Wouldn't that be something? Wouldn't that be everything?