The air in my apartment smells the same, the grass outside is the same color. My bed is still just a bed, and my hands are the same size.
I have a few more clothes than last year, and a larger collection of DVDs. There is less food in my apartment. I have gained a few pounds, lost them, gained them back.

My hair is longer than it ever has been. My fingernails look the same. The TV is still dusty. The sign on the door saying “Check: turn off AC” is still taped securely. I am still five feet nothing. I listen to new bands. I listen to old ones. I have read more books this year than any other year in what I consider my “adult” life.

I still worry, I still get upset. I’m on time sometimes, and sometimes I’m late.

I am more assertive than last year. I am more uncertain than ever, but in some ways more sure. I still don’t know what happiness is, and I’m not sure if I will ever find it. I have made so many mistakes, consciously and unconsciously. I have learned about the destruction of inertia. I have learned that I choose my problems that are the size of looking at a cell phone, whereas Gandhi turned to bigger problems.

My toenails are painted silver once more. I’m wearing the same rings.

My heart has been torn open, but only because it has been open have I been able to look inside. Only through clawing through darkness have I experienced light.

There are roads here, where we used to follow them. But where we’re going, we don’t need roads.

“Out beyond ideas of right and wrong, there is a field. I will meet you there.”

Meet me in Montauk.

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