Lately it seems as though my memories -
those internal anchors of identity - have loosened themselves from their
sheaves to float about aimlessly in the ether; here, an unlikely pair brush
past one another, while other, tighter chronologies careen away, as though
repelled by their like poles. The ephemera of this stagnant rock pool reflects a self so fractured it hardly bears peering into, but I can’t
seem to pull myself away at times.
This year I want to do more doing, and less
lying wounded along the shoreline of my personal histories. I want to stop
worrying over little, incremental units of time, and simply live the big
picture. Rather than brace myself for the slap of each wave as it comes, I want
to climb up and over the whole roiling froth of it and learn to ride the swell.
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