Finally, there has been snow. Large flakes that drift lazily down to Earth. Most of them melted once they hit the ground, but a few have stuck, giving gravel driveways the illusion of white rivers with milky bogs on either side. Still, if I peep through the windows, the grass is stubbornly green. In the morning, each emerald shaft has white filigree edges, and the sun rises from among the bare crooked trees as a song bird from the thicket.
Each year people look at the next 365 days and see it as a new slate, a blank piece of paper on which to draw their fates, but looking out my window, I see it as the same paper as before, only the pencil has been sharpened and I have a new eraser. What we do one year is invariably tied to what we have done in the years past. How would we know what to draw, if we didn't have the past drawings to look back on? Sure, we've also made mistakes in the past years, but that's why there's an eraser, to fix things to the best of our ability. Some things just can't be fixed. They're drawn in pen, often by someone else, and the only thing we can do is use that drawing to create a better, bigger picture.
So, your pencil has been sharpened, you have a new eraser, and there's a little more room on your paper. The only question is what you will draw.
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