I was sitting in my friend’s car, just a few hours ago.
With a cup of iced latte in my hands, though the “iced” part was long gone; I have had them since the afternoon.
When did I start celebrating New Year’s? And when did I stop?
Why was I ever a celebrator? Why am I no longer one?
What’s the point of assigning so much meaning to the last few minutes of the last day of the year, or to the first few minutes of the next?
Doesn’t it feel like a quiet betrayal to every other second, minute, day, and month we’ve lived? I feel unjustified.
This past year, I struggled as always, but with a difference: I was aware of it, as though watching myself in a mirror.
I stopped searching for the meaning of life somewhere along the way, like a character pulled from the pages of Camus.
Perhaps the lack of meaning is the meaning of life.
Perhaps the only thing that matters is that I’m still here, in this moment, writing these stupid words.
To live is simply…to live.
Ok, that’s enough bullshit for tonight.
Good night and happy new year.
December 2024