Words.

The Year of Magical Thinking
Barely five days and decisions in,
I see the roads in front of me
merging and forking,
a live metamorphosis occuring
before my very eyes.
My map outdates itself immediately,
and I have to rely on my own,
to find my way through the year.
But what difference does it make,
with or without a map?
More often than not I have
relied on my judgement
to show me the way,
and more often than not, it has
always been against my better judgement.
I will feel lost, I feel loss.
But this will be the year of
magical thinking.
Projecting and forging ahead,
the endgame is not at the beginning
of this year.
Unfinished, it’s unfinished, it
will remain unfinished.
This is no more a game for me,
my life is from now on
my responsibility.

I understand that the title of my poem is also the title of a novel by Joan Didion, and I acknowledge that it is her novel that has provided me the inspiration to write this piece here. Sometimes, to be able to work out ones thoughts and feelings, one merely needs the gentle nudging in the right direction by the words of another, and then a flood of words and insight will rush forth.

Sleep calls me to escape,
to run away from
the conscious mind.
Other minds are still
active.
            Passivity working
itself through as my
eyelids tumble down,
and pen streaks across the
page.