So, we stand again above the wreck of another attempt at self-improvement. The date is set, objectives vague but idealistic, goals overly-ambitious and then whole thing crumbles when you realise that becoming a better person can’t be “achieved”. You won’t wake up one day with that project behind you, but instead it’s just the ongoing push against your baser self, with all the tricks and turns that notion of self-duplicity brings with it.
The beginning of a new year offers that hope. The clicking over of the calendar gives the impression of a somewhat clean slate on which to attempt to replace/re-place yourself. You ignore the pages underneath; with their smears of blood, cum, shit, tears and grubby fried food finger-marks and instead you bask in the glorious potential of it all. There’s that word again. The word that has been chasing me since primary school. Potential. Beau has great potential, if only he could apply himself. This year also had great potential but look where it led us.
In the spirit of breaking bad habits, of fleeing my potential to be a lazy oaf afraid of his own thoughts, and to accept my eternal becoming I offer you this. A collect of words, barely big enough to cause a ripple in the sea of human expression. It is small, but hey, it has potential?