And if you could only see them, you would agree, agree that there is no romance around here.

A new year always feels very raw. Raw in a vulnerable sense, raw like an open wound. Raw like an overripe fruit split open and spilling seeds from it's wet belly. A new year slips in like it's not being watched and taunts you with it's inevitability, forces you to take stock of the year that has just washed it's hands of you. January is a dead month. Nothing grows in it's cold, it only masquerades as a fresh start, it doesn't let anything but the year begin. Parts of me are still stuck in 2009, rooted simbiotically amongst things that have become, gratefully, only bad memories. You aren't meant to remember the bad things, they fade over time leaving only the vaguest sense of who and where and what you were. I want to remember, I want to feel that boiling-soul, animalistic rage. That primitive, primal fear. I want to remember that a hot heart will cook your brain and blind eyes will lead to breaks in the pavement and gut instinct will only work if you're quiet enough to listen. I want to remember so that I will learn from it.
I want to feel in control again, which is a wish I'm sure Fate laughs in the face of. Freedom is a finely woven illusion because no matter how much we think we know, none of the knowledge is intrinsic. Most, if not all, is delicately sown by someone else. We aren't free from outside influence and we aren't free from ourselves. The human mind is kept quite cozy inside our bodies, almost to the point of sedation. Of course, this is all quite hypocritical coming from a girl with only a high-school education. What would I know about worldly knowledge, freedom, or the limitations of the human body? I, of course, won't begin to fool myself with the notion that I am in control. I am sated, but I am not nourished. Spiritually, that is. I'm happy, but in that empty Western way brought on by a lack of want or worry. In a developed country there is an underlying epidemic of guilt for feeling unhappy because, really, what have we to feel unhappy about? I don't think depression is caused by material or emotional unfullfillment, I think it's a realization that even thought we have everything, there is still capacity for dissatisfaction. This cultural cluster-fuck of banality, repressed guilt and navel-contemplation is made especially evident in the New Year. People crawl around with credit card hangovers and a self-hatred for their blind holiday overindulgence. You go back to work with a slimmer wallet and a fatter ass and start the cycle anew, except you're a tad more miserable because forced holiday cheer has sapped the lot of your seratonin.
I'm just glad it's all over. Call me Scrooge, but every year I get a little more disillusioned by it all. It's all sugar-free to me, I can taste the fake on the back of my tongue.
I'm going to start cultivating a clear head. I'm going to dust off some brain matter, scrub every crackling synapse until I can feel again. I want to see and not be seen.