Lean

I'm not a revolving door, she rants on the country radio in winding mountain passes, before static eats up the rest of her monologue. I'm a one way street. How exceptionally simplistic, you think as you hug the curves you know by heart. Life is so much more than platitudes. My mother cuts my hair, inches much too short and for just a moment my breath gets stuck in my throat. But it's only hair: it grows back.

The year races to its end, the decade saunters. You don't want to jump back, you don't need to run ahead. Somehow, for one short instant in your life, you are happy right where you stand. A year races to its end and you will not be sorry to see it go. A shiny new day rests on the horizon; is this not always the way? Ten years later, how much can you add to the conversation? The answer is that you have to grow every year to not bore yourself. You have to grow to make it worthwhile.

New Year,
Same You.

Just a little bit better
again.