On the eve of the New Year, I sat on top of a mountain overlooking my city, witnessing the fireworks display.
Though I felt I should have thought of something profound, that I should have expressed some sort of meaningful sentiment, that I should have reflected on the year just past in the most serious way possible, nothing came up. In previous years, I would romanticize the recent past, portraying the previous 12 moths as some kind of noble, heroic struggle of growth and achievement.
But I couldn’t. I knew there was nothing to be said, that this arbitrary change of year had little personal significance, that the change in the course of my life was to be found not in the resolutions made at the stroke of midnight, but rather the countless ‘forgotten and uneventful’ days throughout the year. As I heard the music raging around the bay below, while I gazed across the vast expanse of bright and flashing lights signalling raucous celebrations, I felt no envy or melancholy. I did not want to be down there with them. I simply wished to retreat to bed, and rest in preparation for a day that would be spent in a way practically indistinguishable from hundreds to come.
One day, I might return to this city, to these lights, this music, this mountain; one day I might return to join the others down in the bay.