the finer line

New Year’s Eve hasn’t meant much to me in quite some time. Probably because for years, I went to the same party with the same friends and each year the countdown to midnight felt more like a sigh of relief that our beds were a little closer. That we could soon say goodbye and get on with the next year.

I moved to a different city and stopped doing much of anything on New Year’s Eve. One or two friends maybe. Someone notices that it’s 12:03 and we all raise a glass and forget. It seems now that at the end of each year, we’re looking harder into a wind that’s coming from far away. Along with the stale hangover, I feel a little rougher each year. A little more raw on the outside and cornered on the inside.

In 2018, I’ll laugh a little less. I’ll smile less too, but make each one count. I’ll think about problems simply, as if the candlelight shows only two courses of action. I’m gonna eat less and build more fibrous muscle. I’m going to perfect the art of solitude. I’m going to look out at my city and the country around it and see the imbalance. I’m going to align myself with the imbalance.