The Cult Of Second Chances

January isn’t a month.

It’s a ritual.

A cult ceremony held

in the name of second chances

that never survived the first.

It doesn’t walk in —

it cleans up the blood,

names it detox,

and sells you the mop.

It arrives not to heal,

but to repaint the crime scene.

The victim?

Last year’s promises.

The weapon?

Hope — blunt, reused, unsterile.

The killer?

Still you.

New look, new year, new gloves.

January is not rebirth.

It’s taxidermy.

You stuff your old self

with better intentions

and mount it over your conscience

like achievement.

It gives you diaries

to confess into,

calendars to pretend with,

mirrors that flatter more than reflect.

It’s the month where discipline is cosplay,

healing is branding,

and every gym membership

is an exorcism that expires in 3 weeks.

It forgives you

before you’ve even sinned again.

It lets you rename guilt

as growth

so you don’t have to change —

just resell in better wrapping.

January is the high priest

of the church of make-believe,

where sinners get sainthood

for making wishlists

and deleting their convenient cuckoldery for a week.

It tells you

you’re a phoenix,

but you’ve just rearranged the ashes

into motivational quotes.

It lets you mourn

without accountability,

hope without history,

and plan like a god

while living like a glitch.

Because January isn’t a door.

It’s a loop.

A Möbius strip of self-deceit

folded into a handshake

between your regret and your ego.

It won’t judge you.

It doesn’t have the memory.

It’s too busy resetting the crime scene

for next year.

So don’t call it a beginning.

Call it what it is —

A serial killer with amnesia

and perfect handwriting.