Each year is a kaliediscope of experience, turning and colliding with each other in bookends of time. A year. A simple measurement to account for a stretch of life that has elasped. Maybe some things marks left on the outside or they've landed elsewhere, harboring underneath the surface. Things I've earned and things I've simply taken. Things that have been given to me, gift after gift. Or thrust at me without want.Things that are sweet. Sweet and golden like honey. Things that are repulsive. Things that turn me red with anger or embarassment. Things I've asked for; things I've held on to, things I've lost, maybe buried. Things that have made me soar and things that have knocked me down. Off my feet. Things that hurt and continue to hurt, the scab repeatedly ripped off. Things of significance. Things of grace. Things so trivial they shouldn't be mentioned. Shrugged off, forgotten like dust. Things so beautiful they didn't seem real. All these things collected, smashed together and then piled one on top of the other. And it will continue on, until the year is years, and each one can be lain out for you to remember. Here's to a year of everything.
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