Yesterday, I read “Promise” by Jackie Kay and thought about new beginnings and decided I’m too old for them. I can’t begin again. I can only continue on and try to be better.
I’m at home, with time on my hands. I know I should be reflecting on my life, formulating goals for the year ahead, setting targets, making plans, finding new hope.
I also know, I won’t do any of that.
2018 will be infested with plans. They will grow and multiply like mould on a shower curtain. I’m moving country, changing how I make my living, trying to stay healthy despite the challenges. Most of all, I’m trying to create a space for my wife and me to put down roots and flourish.
The risk is that the change is superficial, the plans purely mechanical, and that we do not become who we want to be.
So my New Year’s promise is this: I will try.
Try to be present.
Try to be loving.
Try to be hopeful.
Try not to fuck up.
That’s as resolute as I can be.
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