The waning hours of 2023 find me in an uncharacteristic state of mind, that being relatively unreflective. I'm usually able to wax nostalgic over the simplest of things from the past, marking the date of the last time I chewed gum or some other inconsequential nonsense that don't mean a thing, wing notwithstanding. Maybe, at this late stage of my life, I've finally realized that the changing of the calendar in a little over six hours from now, doesn't amount to a hill of beans in this world (gender purposely omitted for no reason at all). It's like finally accepting the fact that there is no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny or nutritional value in iceberg lettuce. Time marches on. So does life. Lather, rinse, repeat.
If I have to cherry pick reasons for my lack of enthusiasm for the ball dropping at midnight, it could be my age, something I've been living in denial about since I was a toddler. ("I am NOT a baby!") As I've entered this third act, which I am grateful to have since many don't even get two, I seem to be getting the signal to wrap it up already. Ruminating about the past twelve months at this point doesn't just give me pause, it makes me downright stagnant. I don't make resolutions, but I don't deny I have plans to make, goals to fulfill, dreams to still realize because my head is either in the clouds or firmly up my ass.
The instantaneous magic that supposedly occurs after 23:59 tonight is all an illusion and slight of hand. So what? There's nothing wrong with hope. It worked out well enough for Crosby and it should for you too. As for me, I'll figure it out when the time comes. And it will, whether I'm ready or not. Until then:
Happy 2024 to ye and for me.
See you on the other side.
