Rash

The weeks race ahead, a year twists and yelps in death rattles disguised as cheer; you write a hundred lists to keep track of what it was you wanted to do before the slate is washed clean, but at the end of the day only one thing matters. You sit at your word processor and wonder at possibility. For so long the pages were built with fear, like you were pummeling toward a destiny you didn't think you could handle, and now you know the opposite is true. That you kept running not for the sheer desire of punishing yourself against the brick wall, but because inside your twisted scrap metal of a chest beat a heart that could not be silenced, even by you, and it believed even when you doubted, (especially when you doubted,) it carried on. Behind you lie printer paper piles, not of failure, but of lessons learned. You see now they've lined your house, they've packed your bags, they've softened the blow. You see now they made you the home for which you were always searching. You see now they built the staircase to the precipice on which you stand.

A year comes to a close, a climb. Around the corner lies a blank page, an open door, the top of the hill and all you have to do is run out to it. All you have to do is fly.