345 sleepless nights.
5 blood tests.
And a stray cat in a fir tree. ♫~♪~♫~♪~♫~♪~
(Oh go on and sing it, because you know you want to.)
It was a year ago today that I made my last entry–(365 days…345 sleepless nights—Do shut up, Kat!) and as I had mentioned then, I had made a major decision and decided that it was necessary to take a different road on the path which I had been currently journeying.
Um, I mean, I didn’t change the path, just that the road I had been using to reach the path to the goal had been a bit altered because, after all, a path and road aren’t necessarily the same but they can both lead to a goal upon said road reached by a path and/or other road which…and…and…and…
So, there’s that.
Anyway, I think what I’ve been trying to say is that the thing about being a “writer” is that it’s this odd balance of experiencing a fucked-up world and all of its completely mental-shit crazy situations that will be thrown at your poor unsuspecting ass, and yet being alone enough of the time to hear the quiet and process them.
So am I saying that my absence was because I needed more experience with the fucked up world in 2014, or that I needed more time alone to process it all.
The answer is neither.
I did not set out to purposely experience the world like some fucking high school graduate taking a sabbatical through Europe to find his asshole self before he starting college, and I certainly did not need more time to listen to the quiet in my head–mostly because there is never any quiet in there–but because everyone, even writers and other–ahem–etherial(?) beings, sometimes just have to do what they have to do. And in the end, if you’re lucky, you will take something from that time and it will make you a better person, and in turn a better writer.
So, on this last night before the last day of the year, I could muddle through a month by month list of the previous year’s events as I had done in the past, but I don’t feel that they would give anything to you, my dear reader, only because I have selfishly kept them to myself for the past twelve months. 2014 was, as someone who shares her musing on a blog** would call, a “cornucopia”. Not only is a cornucopia appropriate for the holiday season, but I truly do feel that it embodies this past year for me: a bit of sour, a bit of sweet, but all nourishing, and–if I want to be a bit megalomanical, which I totally am not above being–providing strength and ability of a Greek pantheonic level.
“A very Merry Christmas,
And a happy New Year.
Let’s hope it’s a good one,
Without any fear.”
Happy 2015, peeps. ♥