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.)
Uh huh. Well.
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…
Yeah. So… 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? 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 someone who pretends to be a writer, sometimes just has 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, because I have selfishly kept them to myself for the past twelve months. 2014 was, as someone who shares her musings 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. ♥