In 2021 I want to chase joy and write love poems about mundane tasks and stitch magic into the fleece of my jumper and staple security to the curtains and bake up a storm and soak in the beautiful dappled sunlight on the walls and strive for contentedness of every day

I don't want to be curled on the sofa in a fit of teeth-crumbling, frantic panic. No more holding myself accountable to capitalism's death grip on my life as tangible outputs and numerical gains. Instead, next year will be about the secret smiles that hide in the corner of mouths for special someones and bursts of song while doing the dishes and too-tight hugs celebrating the random excellence each new day brings

I'm here. We're living. We're okay.