Not that I generally subscribe to the measurement of time as we know it — though we are all somehow bound to it by outside forces, aren’t we? —, but the ending of the year always makes me pensive and wistful. At the least, it serves as a chance to look back over a certain span of time and consider the portion of life we have just lived. Consider how we have lived. Consider how we ought to have lived. Consider the good, the bad, the unfulfilled.
My mind seems to focus on the unfulfilled. There is always something more to desire. Though I may find myself generally content, there is always a gaping hole for at which I must stare.
Another year, still no love. Oh, no doubt there are those that love me, but I mean the love of a woman. That empyreal bloom that burns from afar and yet just out of reach as the sun in the eyes of a child.
Yet, there seems to be hope. There is a woman of whom I care quite greatly. But still it is a mystery. Fog at night. A will-o’-the-wisp hovering in the distance, floating a little further as I try to draw near. And there are times that I find myself wondering if I should keep putting myself through the trudging and drudgery of pushing through the swamps, swinging my hand at vapor, an illusory light of my own shaping.
Wonder, as I must, if any year will feel complete and fulfilled in the absence of a held hand. There seems to be some strange and amazing effect to a life shared. Somehow the sum is greater than its parts, where one and one are three… and yet more.
Dreams come in part now, and hope, by the shade. Daylight trickles through my fingers and in a panic I try to grasp as much as I can. Yet, I can’t. When will I realize that the daylight surrounds me? That in trying to seize it, I miss being bathed in it, miss the warmth that envelops my body. When I find it, I won’t need it in my hands for it shall seep from every ventricle of my heart.