The Year of the Snake

I accept that my latest layers will be raw, and tender to the touch. This essay isn’t about the weight— of the worn-down cage that once fit like a second skin. No, this is the essay about the mystical rebirth, after sheddings of self… About the year of ego death, the shadow’s work, exorcisms, and the cards that foretold.

About that snake refusing death, couldn’t risk the rot in being left unchanged. Left behind a molt-mess, so grim a sight— shook the horse to its core. A prophetic message: You can’t outrun your ugly. And with that warning the horse took off, flying anyways. 

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The Great Revealer, 2025, now I see— how it truly takes one to know one… Your slither-rattle-battle cries, all lessons in keeping my grass precise— the lower the better. And look, how we’ve alchemized gratitude. Freed ourselves, seven ways forward. Seven ways back… Stopped the suffocating, sacrificed at least a pound of flesh. 

Next year, we ride the air. Obviously. Bat-outta-hell fast. Chariot, and running through the ruins— most valuable in hindsight, after the burying-bit. I picture this year enshrined, revisiting only in episodic admiration, like a rewatch… Recount it, like a myth. Replay it, only through remembering, the beautiful-awkward vignettes. 

No bullshit, the road is rocky because it’s real? The crumbling Tower? The energy of effort and vice versa. It’s all abundantly here. Cleared. Reflective, and shining so bright it’s ignorant to ignore… The snake surrendered to the unknown! And paid all the prices. Worked for the freedom that is vulnerability, terrifyingly so, this year. Faced Death for grace... gave, for love— of the present!

Damn…