But it won’t get any harder
And I hope you’ll find your way again
And it won’t get any higher
And it all boils down to what you did there
- The Cranberries – Disappointment
The fine filament flows outward over the past, year, two years, three, however many. A retrospective gloom casts its way back over a year, always at the end, as though there is an end. There isn’t. The “new year” is as arbitrary in reality as our sense of time, our calendar, our construct. Every era has multiple, we’re just currently dominated by a certain hodgepodge structured around fairy tales, cannibalism, fear, secrets and probably some sprinkle of truth. And the kind of hope that arises from fear, or need against fear, or initially out of euphoria only then to become a battle with power and fear, sweating in tight halls with smoky air. Old vs. new. Truth vs. true.
None of it is really true. Like the lingering way my brain hasn’t purged it’s typical year-end lament. Apparently you need to sleep enough for the brain-sweepers to do their job. Maybe that’s it – the long sleep debt has cluttered my neurons with too much information and not enough clean synapse.
I need a brain broom. I need a nap. I have a hustle to pursue and one must start with a clean slate, a serving platter ready to take on the weight of the whole feast of year-to-come and things to be accomplished. What with wishes and dreams, and debt and anxiety, it could be a hell of a year, a hellish year, or likely some combination thereof as the real path is a vicissitude not meant for mapping. It’s not a trap, it is a ride, and opening, opportunity, threat, secret, promise and choice.
It is what it is. What it is remains to be lived. Staying on the right path, correcting direction when needed, sleeping the long hours if possible, making the long days productive as can be. Stop moping and start moving. Cut lethargy away from my bones, build strength. Ignore the dark, embrace the rain, enjoy the sun, the hours back and forth, the process. Live with the results. Live through them.