new year, who this?
‘Tis the season for reflection, for plans, for resolutions. This may not feel like the best year for all that (look back at your 2020 resolutions, if you dare—it may be too difficult to see that kind of dashed optimism, though), but I still find it deliciously satisfying to take stock and use this arbitrary time marker as opportunity for reflection. It shouldn’t be surprising to me that I still want to do some kind of new year’s resolution-- I just love reflecting and navel-gazing in general. Hell, I’ll embrace a random Thursday at 3 p.m. as the “perfect opportunity for reflection.” I kid. Sort of.
Something I’ve been thinking about, though, is that I want to avoid resolutions that are bound to be broken or that are rooted in fatphobia and the evils of capitalism. No unrealistic goals to completely change who I am fundamentally, no diets or “wellness cleanses,” and no hustle culture boss bitch expectations. That kind of narrative just pushes us to buy things and hate ourselves. Of course capitalism takes what is good, bastardizes it, and hands it back as a tool for shame and self-flagellation.
Still, if your resolutions fall into this vein, I won’t judge. I mean, I won’t really know, will I? But if I did know, I wouldn’t judge. Those are just my own personal rules for a new year’s reflection. I encourage you, if you use this prompt, to allow yourself to reflect on this past year and the year to come however you wish. Let yourself enjoy the process. It’s all yours!
prompt #23
Today I have a sweet and simple timely prompt for you, friend: What are you taking with you into this new year, and what are you leaving behind?
As always, you can be as literal or as artsy-fartsy as you want with this prompt. If it helps, set a timer for five minutes to help yourself get started on your first (and/or final) draft. Enjoy!
ashley's piece, leaving behind
I’m always trying to leave insecurity in the dust, but that bitch always comes after me, so close I can feel her hot breath on that ticklish spot behind my ear, on my neck. I squirm, titillated and excited at first, to be seen, to be touched. But she never keeps her promises, and her attentions go sour before long. Belittling, cruel, she pins me down with her pointed fingernail and spits in my face. “I’m so sorry baby,” she cries afterwards, “I could never hurt you.” The shock in her face used to soften me up, but now I know it’s a mask, a tool. I’m leaving her again, taking everything I can pack into my car. I drive fast, I don’t look back. Through the night, gas station coffee fueling my escape. She’s been right behind me, on my trail, before. But maybe not this time. Maybe I’ll have shown her. I’m stronger now.