If I were to trace some words onto paper to curl up into a wrinkly taquito to tuck into the plastic water bottle decked out in a mosaic of colored tissue paper that I have called my personal time capsule since the third grade to open again after another orbit of the earth only to find the words I had once committed to but long ago ceased to attempt, I would say I am just fooling myself for yet another year.
Not once has that method ever worked for me, so if I am to have any change at all, let it be that I stray from the maddening of no end.
That is one change I am certain I can commit to. Really, it does become rather simple to not engage than to engage, but more often than not, the lack of engagement leads me to a wide field of tall grains, each a fruit of my regret and each growing by every passing thought that once again meets that unwise moment.
Then, is it better to commit, even to a fruitless field, rather than face the alternative?
I imagine tomorrow to be another today: a bit different, maybe a bit worse, maybe a bit better. If that is the case, then tomorrow’s tomorrow would be even more so different, maybe even more so worse, maybe even more so better. Same for a tomorrow a week from today, a month from today. Then, a tomorrow a year’s time later would hold an entirely new face. I could pass by it without a single thought that, yes, that is the same form, the same version of what I once walked by myself.
If the tomorrows are so unique from each other, then certainly so would every possibility that each one holds, every possibility for a change in season, change in expectations, change in heart, change in action.
If the tomorrows are so unique from each other, then certainly so would every possibility that each one holds, every possibility for a change in season, change in expectations, change in heart, change in action.
Since it is better to commit, even to a fruitless field, rather than face the alternative, I find that commitments are not so foolish after all. It was only foolish for me to excuse what I did not want to engage in as a mad endeavor. Mad or not mad, crazy or sane, I will tuck away this note into a wrinkly taquito capsuled into the bottle plastered with an odd assortment of decorations for yet another year.
