I fail, at every turn I fail, not reaching the bars haphazardly splayed above me but tumbling instead into depths below, perpetually convinced that to not reach the top means to be firmly mired at the bottom. Does midwinter always feel so hopeless (the answer is yes)? A dreadful year comes to a close, but you never can outrun yourself. Did you do the things you thought you might make of your life (the answer is never)?
But I see the numbers rise on my list of notes written. See how this year has somehow, despite the muck and mire and the feeling that you are forever so many steps behind, added up to more stories than any other year before it, see how twelve years of keeping this record has been more prolific this year than ever. Sometimes growth does not announce itself in great fanfare. Sometimes it merely arrives, nestles in, after you've walked ten thousand miles one step at a time, after you've built your story brick by brick, sometimes it is just there, and you made it.
The new year arrives with fireworks and countdowns and much hollering, but that doesn't mean that everything will, nor that if it doesn't, it is somehow less spectacular.
Keep your eyes open. You may not be falling at all.
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