A brand spanking new year is here, a mysterious package that's showed up at my doorstep and could contain anything--a rose or a cup of hot chocolate or a monster. I've never been one to make New Year resolutions. I figure that I perpetrate enough failure in my every day life, and so there's really no reason to set myself up for more at the very beginning of the year.
I do make plans. I'm a planner. That works for me because it's easy to change plans, and I don't usually want to flick myself in the soft parts of the back of my neck if such a need arises. And I like new years. They're a whole new excuse for personal reinvention, a blank page where I can cross out everything I haven't written down yet.
And man, do I have some plans for this year. If 2004 taught me anything, it's the exact value of everything that I have, and that I don't deserve half of what I've got. This year, I plan to pay attention. I plan to go back to work on my languages so that I can communicate with more people. I plan to continue to believe--wholeheartedly--in romance, even when the world tries to convince me otherwise.
The best part about a new year is that the potential for hope is the highest it'll ever be without a distinct reason.