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?