This will be my 27th New Year, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll be turning 28 in a few short days, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll be one year closer to decay and eventual death. But even that doesn’t matter. The new start that this year permits matters.
The solemn evenings melting into inky black nights, spent in solitude staring out at the endless ocean. These will matter. The time alone to myself, to smack my lips on a succulent cut of tenderloin & sauteed asparagus I prepare alone, to pour glassful after glassful of wine until the bottle is dangerously close to existential emptiness, to sit and stroke my pussy to the point of a deep satiated slumber for us both. These things will matter.
Because I’m done with my fear of poverty and my reliance on outside sources for sustenance. I’m ready to live a lush life (although in moderation), a passionate life, a life of my own making. Shame on me that it has taken so many years to develop this independence. Would that I had lived so freely before, that I had demonstrated such honesty and confidence in my decision-making–I wonder what I would be by now?
But that is behind us–the past cannot be changed except by lies, and even then it is not changed, but warped. Spinoza I’m sure would agree: A good clear lens will show all to be what it truly is. The future I will formulate and realize to my own liking, by my own craft, “in my own funny way”, come whatever mishaps and poor results may. Pray that this will lead me to the life I want.