2013.

The days pass in a blur. The alcohol drips through my body like self-prescribed medication and breaks down coherence and defenses alike. Nothing aligns, no plans are made, the days rush at me like vicious nightmares that tear at my flesh while I am unable to reach them, but I laugh, laugh and run madly in the streets with open bottles and illegible cell phone messages in my hands.

By the time we sit in the busy coffeeshop and catch up, the new year is already old and I am painfully behind schedule. He speaks to me of Russia, of cold winters and difficult plans. He mimics someone else's drunken words the night before and says Just go. It's what you want. There is time. For a short while, I pretended life could be different, that the deep circle of my days which I have paved into the road would be as easy to step out of as the old year that passes, inevitably, with joy. But his words echo in me as I walk home, and I know the circle perpetuates itself. That I will run tirelessly around it. I will pack those bags, clean up this apartment until no trace of me remains, stand in an airport terminal with teary eyes and bubbling heart. This is the bed in which I lie; the sheets are torn and the pillows smell of you, but I made it this way and one day how sweet the sleep will be. Your new year's letter writes careful words of an uncertain future. She knew nothing of tomorrow; she seems hellbent on keeping it that way.

All I really hope is that you are around to read this letter next year. That you are not a shell. That you are not numb.
Life is too good to waste. 
I hope you are happy.