The new month is upon me and I can't help but resist the turn of a new tide. I have tried to turn before. I have declared and renewed the vision so many times that I am cynical of my own wish for change. The imbroglio of my inner man has woven itself into a knot of dreams and deeds and nightmares and misdeeds. New. Each day is new. But the calendar turning from its out of control early thirties back to it's innocent 1 has a way of reminding me. I know every time I look in the mirror that change is necessary and now. I know that truth is tantamount to this pursuit. I know that discipline is the dialectic. But I know I won't.
Can I really convict myself of a crime I am certain to commit? Or should my certainty shame me from recidivism to repentance.