The workday awaits me like a noose overhead. It cannot be avoided and does not care how I am feeling. At some point I will embrace it and swing, but for now I only know dread and the fear of a black hood I make for myself.
Solstice comes then goes… but the calender doesn’t change. We binge on one holiday to purge on the other one week later. We make promises we have no intention of keeping so we can feel empowered about “the now” and a failure later. As you get older this matters less. It is only another night; as you will have done enough debauchery to fuel a lifetime already. The clock will align its hands straight up, again, but it will happen while sleep is king and this new year will still be new in the morning.
The decorations and all that glitters mark this day as well as any calender can. So we gather in our preselected groups. Some familial some friends… co-workers and blow-ins… and random mixes of the above. Hugs handshakes laughter… liquor. The earth will circle the sun once more before this happens again. But here it is today. We all make it through, somehow. Some thrive in it, some despair, and the rest of us push through with the comfort of knowing it’s only once each year. Merry Christmas.
The Christians and progressives love me, the radicals too. The lost and dejected, those who seem to have no hope and those who have nothing but hope for everyone else. I read their posts, I read what they have written, and I smile. I have a wide audience… people who would not get along if I put them in a room together. However, somehow, within the words I have stamped on this world they have found some form of agreement… however tenuous, however week. I like this. I like this a lot. They are shaking hands, though they do not know it, through the veil of my words.
Ok so I’ve become jaded. An unknown artist on the station that features the unknown. Her voice is restrained melodic breathy… she is a successor to the chanteuse of my youth. She is, as each new generation must, taking her first stabs at the world, and all my ruined mind can muster up is, “you’re doing it wrong”. She isn’t, of course. There is beauty in her soft lament, but my stained soul cannot accept it fully. I must compare and contrast because my era has passed and I can’t grant her this one. It is only fitting, for her, that it is not mine to grant.
I listened to the whole song: It was very good, and I was better for having heard it.