It is the first.

Awaking to the unclouded sky, washed clean by wind and sun and late night revelry.  A dawn I didn't see, but now experience the light of.  What wonders will this new beginning bring?  The slate so fresh and unadulterated beckons me to strike out upon it and make the first markings of the year.  And so with pen in hand, my chalk, my tool, my mind is dusted off to engage in a tradition long abandoned: the morning ritual of stretching conscious thought.  Verbal gymnastics in the form of prose, even getting the narrative started is a challenge in itself.  So many bad habits to break, so many things that must be let go of in order to let the flow come through.  And so with that said, I'll dive into the deep end and pray that closing my eyes doesn't cause me to forget how to swim.

Deep beneath the current of the undertow, far removed from the conscious mind, lies a stillness.  A place within which I am free from the judgements of myself.  Even as I think, the echoing voice of doubt calls to me and reverberates inside my mind a deafening disillusionment.  I cannot seem to hear anything but.  And so I try to relax, to sink beneath the waves, and let the pull of that retracting force take me away. Perhaps it's for the better that the muscles have atrophied.  I cannot swim I've found, and so I flounder.  Desperately trying to remain afloat and looking like a fool.  I must accept death.  I must accept that failure is part of the process of life.  I cannot fear the ebb and flow.  It is in that acceptance where I will find my peace, where I will realize that you don't need to know how to swim if you can breathe underwater.