What Does It Mean To Be Successful?

How can we write of New Years Resolutions without asking ourselves and each other this question?

Success is being well liked. Being the sort of woman who is asked to run for President but has enough sense and self-awareness to know that involvement in politics is a terrible idea. 

But what will make people like me? And isn’t the desire to be liked inherently dislikable? Abhorrant, even? 

How will my friends recall me to others? Will they? Can I get people on the Internet to want to be my friend? Are my politics on point? Does it matter? When I graduate, will I become less invested in that question? Is that a good thing?

I always want to write more, and I’m never sure what. I cannot escape the endorphin rush that is a like or comment or share or retweet, but I am no journalist. I was a poet once, back when I was in love. I was in love once, but back then I was always sad. I don’t know if I want to be in love again. I don’t know if I could live without a friend who knows what homonormativity means. 

I want to be busy. I want to be tired at the end of the day and not from looking at a screen. I want to meet new people, new people to like me and for me to maybe like (though the latter is secondary). 

For one moment I’d like to not feel as if the world is about to end or all the people I love are about to die.

I’d like to be a part of a community. A staple, but not the center. 

I wish I was reliable again. I miss the days when being a half hour early or five minutes late was an easy choice and my answer meant that I was quite reliable. I miss being reliable. 

I was never eloquent, just good at formulas. If you read enough–quantity and quality–anyone can write. I stopped reading and now I can no longer write. I no longer write.

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