The familiar seat is again vacated. A new resolution, if another iteration of the resolution of two fruitless years may yet be called new, is ideated, broken, and fades away. Another wake is traced on the lake in the overcast morning for the wind and waves to heal.
Some mornings, the wind is less gusty, and sometimes, it being weaker, the tall grass bends and undulates less therein. Sometimes the wavelets subside into ripples. Sometimes the sky is streaked rather than smothered with cloud. The lake, its colour being to some extent a reflection thereof, may assume a deep, thoughtful blue.
The wakes may be longer sometimes. They may be more turbulent, wider, or closer to the passers-by on the shore. The latter may turn for a moment and regard the passing vessel with slight disinterest, before resuming their stroll. None of this matters, because the wake still will not last.
The seat will again be occupied. More hours will be whittled to malformed scrap with decisions in which will not be found even the strength or rigidity of dollar-store thread. The time of progress has arrived, and it will leave its passenger behind, for it does not suffer hesitation well. The illusion of potential is weak, and will not endure.
Sometimes we reach for the stars. Sometimes we know that the stars are out of reach, and that we need to move on. There will not always be tomorrow. There will not always be another day to waste.