This is a new year, but things still seem old. Things seem just the same as they were last year. My personal obstacles still stand before me, daring me to conquer them. I continue to think I want to be a writer, but my stomach tightens at the thought of logging into WordPress and writing in my blog. What can I write about? Do I need a clearer direction? Am I getting anywhere? Where is this magical place called “anywhere” anyway?
I’m looking out the window at the snow-covered ground. Several sets of footprints litter the snow. People, whom I will probably never meet, have left their marks out there in front of the building. It seems that there is something poetic about the indentations that these people have left behind; something a little bit sad.
Life is still ordinary this year. I complete life’s necessary tasks. I eat, and I sleep, and I work, because I must. The snow outside the window is pure, white, and inviting. I picture myself outside making footprints, maybe as a means of participating.
The snow is still. The snow is quiet. It reminds me of the world I lived in when I was a child. That world isn’t real anymore because I know too much now. I still have my innocence, but it’s tarnished. It doesn’t sparkle like it used to.
Is writing a way for me to make sense of the world? Writing allows me to ask questions, but it rarely gives me answers. Today I wrote about snow, and to do that I had to look at and think of the snow. I can say that today I sat down with myself, and for about a half an hour, I had a purpose.