New Year?

If it is under the rock, it is hidden. 

If it's on top of the rock, then it's exposed.

The Rock is the point.

I know who my father thought he was. He really wanted to be that man. I don't know if he ever knew how far off he was. But I suspect that he did.

I know who I thought I was. I know how far off I am.

~~~~~~~~~~

One more trip around the Sun? One more New Year's resolution? One more recitation of things to come?

Once more an affirmation to stand fast on this trip through the void. Riding this material train, longing for a chance to transfer to the celestial Super Chief.

In the past my fellow travelers we're not my fellows. I moved to another car. I now sit in a darkened car. What of this leg of the journey? Do I transfer, moving to yet another car? Do I have much choice?

Maybe in the next one I will find a regular traveler who will explain to me the beauty and the wonder that's just outside the trains window. Maybe the conductor will come by and regale me with stories of other passengers, other places, other wonderful things.

Hope Springs Eternal. But this train has no Springs. And the bumps of the tracks are quite hard. I cannot sleep in these seats.

One more trip around the Sun!, is blared over the announcement speaker. One more trip. One more trip. Where am I going? I've gone into soo many cars. When will someone come into mine? My neck aches from looking up to hope. My nose is bloody from looking down to shortcuts.

I take a trip around the Sun. The sun takes a trip around the Galaxy. But the Galaxy trips around the Universe. And no one knows where the universe takes it's trips. The conductor brought me on this trip. He said he would look after me because I started as a minor. But that was back when there were many more travelers in that car.

He won't sit with me now. I rarely see him anymore. The sparse travelers I meet don't see me anymore. They speak a language I don't understand. Maybe I just speak one that they stopped speaking. The lights in this car flicker in and out. They don't work well. The seats have no cushions and the windows are dirty and stained.

One more trip. One more trip. One more trip. Rattles the rhythm of the tracks. Happy New Year! No, not this time. One more trip. One more year. One more New Year.

Now where's that Conductor!

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If you could write like Shakespeare, Poe, Hemingway, or any of the others, would you then read them?

How much of my soul am I required to give to be sanctimonious?