In order to put such a pivotal year into words requires an understanding of a single thing: in what way it changed my ability to recognize myself. At the present moment, I am not entirely positive I can conclude the ins and outs of such an idea. The year began only slightly less dim than last year ended, and although it seems like light years ago, I can only now understand why it was necessary to have a year like 2017 in order to notice my own growth in 2018. While still a stereotypical "new year, new me" notion, it is still one we all reach for at a time or another and only when it comes to fruition does it feel less cliche and more of an accomplishment. None of what I could explain to you about this year is in any sort of correlation, yet I still I can assure you that, nevermind the following happened in the calendar year, it has felt like a long time coming. The days seemed to drag, making this progression in myself seem like a feat bound to never happen.
On the tip of my tongue sat the statement "I developed a habit of fighting off sleep," and while it never came out of my mouth, to say I developed it errs quite on the side of ignorance. As I wrote this, I had a vigor for writing that I hadn't felt in weeks and for fear it would slip away, I let my rest fall by the wayside. I had come to wonder if I didn't want the days themselves to end or if I'd be afraid to miss something should I close my eyes. The evening of Christmas seemed to be different, as I had begun falling asleep as I was making stuffing for dinner. As we ate, I could only further think of the shower i'd be taking and how clean my bed would feel as I crawled into it. Although exhausted and riddled with the knowledge I'd have to be up in 7 hours, I began to fight sleep again. Showering, but not getting dressed right away. Finally getting dressed, but needing to go downstairs and get water. Reaching for ice in the freezer, but stopping to admire the now darkened and quiet kitchen, hollow of any possibility that just an hour before was filled with conversation and turkey, the table only lit by a fir scented candle, when up close accentuated the markings in the table from years of homework and bills written on it. And for a moment I looked at the table and thought "why did we bother cleaning the table for dinner when everything will pile back on it eventually?"
My protest of rest became fervent, almost negligent, all in the name of reasoning what this particular year meant to me. I came home from work on the 26th of December utterly exhausted and the closest to tears I had been the entire holiday season. Upon entering the living room, mom questioned "how did it go?" knowing I was up at 5am to leave by 5:45, knowing I was supposed to close, not open, knowing how I handle strangers at this time of the year, what with their assisting of what is "better" for me and what is in my "best interest" for a job they have not worked a day in their life, thus granting them the privilege of not having to deal with aforementioned assisting customers. Through the threat of tears in the back of my eyes, I decided I'd eat dinner, then take time to fall into chapters of Joan Didion stories that have graced the eyes of thousands, but never my own. My attention lasted as long as the daemon in the corner of my room didn't insist I have a thought I needed to write down, otherwise pushing me to move as quickly as I could so not to lose, alternatively risking the pending absence of, what could be the greatest thing I have ever written. The assumption can be made that's where most of my memories of the year reside; my mental timeline having been filled with blog posts and photo captions and rogue emails with potential to never see the light of day. In a moment of clarity I recognized what only I understood as writing translated into the idea of being a writer. Still pretentious and refusing to escape my lips is such a title, afraid to commit to something when I've yet to commit to anything. So I persist, encouraging the idea that writing for the rest of my life would be fine and preferred, still never insisting that I have a title.
The more I found myself in words, those of my own or of others, the further more persistent my grasp on myself became, title or not. I often reflect on the moments I pushed myself out of my box, all closely followed by words, or an attempt at them, not quite scratching the surface. Moments like sitting in the warmth of my own heat on a cold bus retreating to Richmond from New York City on my best friend's birthday, without my best friend; stopping myself at the top of a mountain to think about how much closer I was to understanding that sometimes things just happen; accepting that friendships aren't supposed to make you feel like you're a shadow or a burden or like you're charity; taking a deep breath in at the top of Bank of America stadium, looking directly into the apartments in your eye line, and looking straight down: first to the backs of those beneath you, then to the field that even that high your entire hand can't cover. l'appel du vide. All of these instances I found to be linked to some sort of intelligence, an echo in my brain, that made sense of what I couldn't hold in my hands. Much like I found myself reading Blue Nights, much like I assume you're feeling in the lack of instant gratification for this non-Instagram caption worthy piece of work, I begged myself to "get on with it," unaware that maybe the problem wasn't the change progressing, but in the incessant urge to find the end, we don't bother enjoying what is it that got us there in the first place.
My ability to know what I learned and how I learned it goes no further than I can see it. While disheartening, it is still important to understand that even the most beautiful of skylines will eventually be disrupted by something, it does not take the beauty from it nevermind the lack of consistency. It was naive to assume I could draw a line demanding to "stay within," and abide by the rules I set for myself, when even the line of the sea meeting the sky will eventually be disrupted by waves. There will be a wonderful conclusion, you just have to wait for it. And work for it. And brace for it. It may not be what you expected, but it shall not be rendered any more insignificant just because you underestimated the power of what was being brought to you and what you bring to yourself. To end this with a conclusion of positivity, or any conclusion period, feigns to be ominous because I have yet to find a conclusion to all the chaos myself. Though in the chaos is where I find my excitement, the calm of the storm is where I find the clarity, and where the clarity exists still breeds the inability to finish this story, as it isn't one determined to be done yet.
You have to clean the table to make it a mess again.