The Year of Survival
Autumn came late this year.
It is in the new year when I am writing that which should have come in September--the turning of a new leaf, or at least the shedding of the old. I have not gone anywhere. I have simply found that I must cast aside that which was--momentum, initiative, discipline, transformation. There's a certain irony to having the first year of stability ever in recent memory and knowing that the way that I have lived will not work for the year to come.
Autumn also came far too soon this year.
The Year of Discipline never had a real end; it came to a standstill with my disdain of the world of literature, where amateur and professional alike have no place for me, and I asked, "what is the point of my writing if it has no place?"
Here is where my writing has lived for over a decade, and in that time, I have not cultivated a widespread readership of strangers; nor have I given its location to many that I count as friends or family. I am my own most fervent reader, and I have had to answer that question of the purpose of my writing.
It's quite fitting to understand that what I have written, what I have always tried to write has never been about a claim to fame, or being a voice that people would think worth listening to, or to serve myself. There is no glory, no self-satisfaction in having the worst moments of my life become my defining stories, and yet they stand as a testament to who I am and who I have always been.
Nobody prepares to grieve, to be ready to let go of someone you were ready to hold tightly to for all your days, but this might be as close as it gets. This is the story of survival, that I have proven my preparation for these moments. For those around me, I must be inhuman so that they may be human.
Year of Survival.001
















