I won’t pretend this year was soft on me. It wasn’t. I wouldn’t dramatise it either. C’est la vie.
I’m accepting of everything that has happened. The good, the bad, the ugly; not because I want to romanticise any of it but pretending otherwise would be dishonest.

Somewhere along the line, something twisted this being too hard, and now I think the wound-up clock has finally broken. But please, do not try to fix me. I want to be completely and utterly broken.

The crack has been seeping in all along. In those moments, dread sat in my chest and coloured my glasses grey, and I couldn’t see beyond the next moment.

Looking back now, I can not even remember the intensity of some of these moments. It’s interesting how the things that gnawed at me some months ago appear to have loosened its hold on me (or maybe I beat them at their own game. I hope).

Some changes come in loudly. Mine didn’t. Did the year shape me? Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. I’m here either way, and there’s more to unravel.