I can't seem to think of this year as a linear measurement. It doesn't seem to stretch on, or up. It hasn't crawled forward or skipped ahead, or moved in any distinct way.
This year has been a hole, and I've been digging it.
Every time I look up, I'm surprised by how far I've come. The dirt in my mouth and the aches in my arms are not meaningful markers. It's only the occasional glimpses above that give me any sense of my place.
I don't mean to say it's been a bad year.
It hasn't been a bad year.
I've walked into sugared seconds, so preciously self-aware, that they melt into syrup as soon as you recognize them. They stick to you then, covering your fingertips. They stay for days.
I smile whenever I see my hands. They probably look dirty, but believe me- they are bejeweled in crystal and sweetness. They shimmer when I hold them to the light, refracting the memories everywhere.
I see them even when I close my eyes.
If you saw me sitting here, on the last day of October- slowly blinking at the bottom of a dry well- you'd probably think I fell.
But I didn't. I dug myself here.
If you saw me sitting here, on the last day of October- bruised and dirtied- you'd probably think I'd be wishing for any other type of year.
But you'd be wrong.
This year is a hole- and I'm diggin' it.
