78 - The Quiet Return to the Ache That Knows My Name

A new year begins, 

and the world pretends it’s a clean slate.

But for me, 

it’s just a return to the grind 

the familiar hum of routine,

the same grey mornings,

the same quiet dread waiting at the door like it never left.

The festive noise has faded.

The lights are gone, 

the forced cheer dissolved,

and what’s left is the slow slide back into the place I call my purgatory.

Strangely, there’s a comfort in it.

The monotony may be dull, 

but at least it’s predictable.

The pain is still here, 

but it’s a pain I know how to carry.

The holidays are too chaotic 

too many highs, 

too many lows,

too many chances for the ground to shift beneath my feet.

I’ve always preferred the familiar ache.

At least I understand its rules.

At least I know how to survive it.

Most people start the year with resolutions 

promises to become better, 

brighter, 

stronger versions of themselves.

They talk about goals, 

growth, 

transformation,

as if the calendar alone can rewrite a life.

My resolution is quieter.

Smaller.

Less glamorous.

To stay here.

To stay alive.

To not let the dark swallow the parts of me that are still trying.

To make it through the days that feel endless

and the nights that feel heavier than they should.

Some years begin with fireworks.

Mine begins with a whisper

just one more day.

And for now, 

that’s enough.