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Another day, another calendar, another page turned without as much as a thought about how to turn it. It is not so momentous a thing, as to earn the focus of a whole entry; yet, tradition has a gravity of its own. I am a creature of habit.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks. These are quantifiable constraints that we apply to the passing of time. These things all connect end-to-end and run together in a continuous string so that we can follow it back to our beginning and watch it vanish somewhere in the obscurity of our ending. Man's need to apply quantifiable measurement to time is as vain and ridiculous as our need to name all things in nature. It is presumption.
Time is infinite, in all directions; however, our ability to observe time is severely limited by our mortality. When we have all gone, time will still be. All things will be, and the names we have given them will not matter.
It goes back to that simplistic test of the naming of a quality: describe to me the taste of something that is salty? What is salt? What is sweet? What is wet? We rely on commonality as a base for our descriptions of experiences, but what about those of us who are not common? How do you explain the given?
A second of time can be dissected into myriad measurements and fractions and decimals and powers of other named segments of time. But that doesn't explain much. What is the measurement of time that defines the slow-dragging passage of a moment of loneliness and heartache? Is it the same unit of measure that one would apply to quick-moving passage of a moment of bliss? Are these the same seconds? Somehow, I think the nomenclature fails, here.
So, here is another year of such moments. I may not see the end; then again, I may see a day when so much time has passed that I scarcely recall the beginning.
This is the year that I turn 32. It's not a milestone.
This will be the year that I remember what it's like to have room to move in my own body.
This will be the year that I break my own heart and rebuild it. Just like every year.
This will be the year that I say, 'Never again!' and then do it anyway. Just like last year.
This year will bring the anniversary of my employment[--]and possibly, my search for a new job.
This year, I will keep in touch with my absent friends.
This year, I will keep in touch with my present friends.
This year, I will not make resolutions to be anything that I am not already, or do anything that I would not normally do, because there is not a damn thing wrong with who I am.
That just about sums that up.
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