The weight off my chest.
This year was kinder on me than most. Everything and anything distressing seems so far in the past that it all feels to me like a nebulous blur of neon colours and vague nostalgia, only accesible through quick flashes zipping by.
January was an eternity of staring out my window.
February was a chore.
March was a much-needed escape from Hanover.
April was anxiety and abhorrent, everlasting snow.
May was life.
June was an exulted sigh of relief.
July was home.
August was holding on.
September was letting go, and metamorphosis.
October was bliss.
November was reconnection and exploration.
December was everything.