People are complicated and they are everywhere and these two simple facts alone are enough to make all the tender frightened bits inside of me claw for solitude. I don’t know who I am more afraid of the crowds or myself when I’m being swallowed by them but either way the sheer overwhelming magnitude of people reflecting on their year as the next decade approaches has my skin crawling with angst. Up above my little useless worrying, the winter sky spreads itself in gray washed white, draped like a dusty old curtain behind the pointy beckoning reaches of empty trees. The soul which is stirring, breathing, in my lungs is attentive to the strangeness of the moisture in the cold spring-like air. The scent of decay somehow intermixed with the dew melting like icicles nestled in brown grass. People are alone. They are alone inside their bodies and even when you are with them this is so. Even if you think you know what they are like or what they are thinking you are only ever one percent right at best. They are a million times more complicated on the inside than they are allowed to be on the outside. I do not know if this is useful but it is a thing I learned this year. I also don’t think I want to focus so much on being useful anymore. Useful has broken me so hard so many times. Useful has severed me from myself and made me into nothing. Isn’t that just a way to make a human a commodity? When you behold a beautiful flower and marvel at the red velvet of its soft petals bursting forth like cherry, the very last thing you would ever say is, Oh my, how useful. No, no. As the wheel turns, as time inevitably passes and skims its faint fingers along your tingling spine, I want you to hold me and think of me like a beautiful, intricate flower, unfolding just for you to lose yourself in, to drink from, or the rain coming down in the heat of summer, soaking you like the dark wet soil, to your mysterious intimate core.