New Year's Eve 2022, in which I am sick and wishing for my miracles

What am I working towards? Maybe a beauty that can be felt rather than be seen. Maybe a love that is tangible in the sense that I can pull it closer and melt into it without fear. To be able to one day give my mother the life that she always deserved. To be excited for the holidays again like I used to when I was little. I think this as I slouch sickly on New Year's Eve, which happens to be a commonality of many New Year's Eves in the past that you'd think I'd be used to it by now. Still I am not. My heart is sore from trying hard to breathe and my brain can't think properly. Those are all things that happen every day, but it's the end of the year and while it's raining hard all around me, I can't help but cling to the dramatics. Or maybe it's because I've taken Zoloft alongside Nyquil and keep hallucinating in and out of slumber to try and piece together the remainder of the year by chugging green tea and having really detailed eery dreams.

Dreams in which people from my past are mean to me and I hate that. It's like my subconscious is trying to teach me a lesson about standing up or moving on, but I heal from these pains like a snail trying to cross the pavement while someone throws little dashes of salt for them to dodge along the way. It sucks, but I still try to do it. These past eight or so days of break from work have let me sit in solitude and sort out my thoughts. I listened to those insane healing meditations and shifting guides on youtube to try and outsmart my subconscious so I could stop dreaming about things like the last person I thought I could see spend a New Year's with me texting me paragraph after paragraph of blurs that made my heart drop. I instead began to dream up stupid things like me having powers and going out, much more amusing, but somehow I've been waking up much more jarred and sicker than before. I don't know, maybe it's the year getting one last taunt of me before I wake up and have to go back to work again.

Am I really ready to leave you behind with this year? Or will I accidentally keep repeating you like wrong dates throughout January? It's easier for others to know how to leave where they are left, but I'm a late bloomer and this part is especially hard for me to solve. There's definitely some lingering of attachment, but I need need need a life filled with passion. There were times when I considered doing it myself, but then I remember that you were too much of a coward to even say that you missed me too, let alone a Merry Christmas or a Happy New Year. Silly little words that meant so much to me that I left room for patience even when you had already left the room months ago. I know that eventually I have to stop excusing this kicked puppy behavior and become my own lapdog adorned with blue ribbons and pats on the head and treats. I don't care. I take my loving heart back with pride and give myself all the patience that I always deserved and so badly wanted past lovers to do in previous years. To pour all that love into myself is probably the most passionate thing that I could do. I know now that I was the love that we all so badly yearned for and I can keep it for myself and the people who love me to death until another miracle blooms. I wished for many a miracle in my time. I've prayed hard and crossed my fingers and worried way too much for someone who's still so stupidly young and born with naturally jet black pin-straight hair and charm and intellect and lust for life. Another year and all the miracles I've sent out into the universe are somewhere idling and playing crosswords at a cafe, so I've taken it upon myself to harvest the beauty and peace I made myself yearn for somehow.

Happy New Year.

Art is Year After Year by Ed Ruscha