And so, another New Year’s Eve came and went, sweet champagne kisses lingering on my lips. I didn’t make a resolution, not one. Not this year. I was tired of the two time gym sessions and vows to cut out the carbs. I didn’t want to be that girl anymore – the girl who sobbed through December, the girl with disappointment stained cheeks. I didn’t want to wake up at midday and have it dawn on me that every plan I’d made had failed. I was tired of being a failure.
I didn’t want to make plans.
I wanted to daydream my way through lazy Sunday mornings and feel the coffee spill through my veins. I wanted to drag blankets onto my balcony and watch the sun glow with endless new possibilities. I wanted to put my Christmas tree up in October and carve pumpkins in June. I wanted to eat a bag of cheesy crisps without guilt’s constant nags whispering in my ear. I wanted to buy a plane ticket and board the plane that same day, explore hidden gardens and hectic sidewalks you can’t plan for.
I wanted to fall in love and not think about the consequences. I wanted to stop thinking altogether and just do. I wanted to lose myself and find someone completely different, someone who more resembled what I wished I could be. I wanted to grab a microphone and sing about my sorrows, leaving them in the past where they’d be safe and could be forgotten. I wanted to smile for no goddamn reason. I wanted to drive on an open road and ignore all the traffic lights, feel the freedom stream through my hair. I wanted to meet someone new and get to know every single thing about them, drown in my own laughter at their words.
I didn’t want to imagine tomorrow, or the day after that. For once, I wanted to think about the present. This year, I wanted to let myself live.