Year in a day

If January 1^st, 2011 was any indication of how the rest of the year will play out, it will look a little something like this:

Act 1: Cold, Dark, and Alone

My breath struggled to even leave my body, frozen inside me, as I rushed out to my borrowed car. Cold that deep leaves me in shock, stripped down to the basics of survival and aching to escape. So drive toward my escape I did, albeit slowly.

Act 2: The Great Escape

Still early in the day, I took my last few strained breaths and gleefully blew out the visible toxins, knowing they were my last like that for a while, maybe forever. I almost laughed in anticipation of my freedom, of flying, of soaring high above the cold and the dark. But still alone.

Act 3: The Sun

The early rays start to chip away at the ice I’ve grown accustomed to. I’m still cold, but starting to thaw. The sun is hope, refreshment, banishment of darkness, and I smile way too much just at the hint of it. These next few hours are mine to bask in its glow, to both wake up and rest and to keep concerns on hold for a while. I need sleep, and I need affection, and I need my ocean waves to carry me to safety. And I need to walk. To move. To become and to realize. I need to need more than cold, dark, and alone.

Act 4: Friends

The absence has been long, so reuniting is also long. I tell my secrets and you tell yours, and we make new ones to keep us laughing for months to come. That comfort sometimes seems so far away, but I realize it’s my own hand staying its warmth. I do my best to stay my hand. With the sun and with friends, I start to remember the opposite of numb.

Act 5: Warm and Safe and Sound, For Now

It ends the way any day should, with calm and compatibility. Reflection makes me grateful and sleep gradually but firmly takes over.