Bookmark #627

Now that the calendar is all but run out, now that it is the last day of the year, I will have to think of a conclusion, or at least a thoughtful, perhaps, poignant sentence. But I sit here with my coffee, as I have sat day after day. To me, this is just another day. How can I claim things have concluded when they are still very much on their way, when I know I am engulfed in the beginning still? This thought repulses me. There is little to say about the last day of a year besides just one: another year begins tomorrow. That is where its significance begins and ends.

When all is said and done, which is another way of saying “in the end” while deliberately avoiding those exact words, there is not much to any of it. To go through a day is to go through a year, and to go through a year is to go through a life, which is a roundabout way to suggest that it is but a day today—nothing more, nothing less. It is but a day today, and what we choose to do with it will have as much control over our lives as any other day has had so far.

How much control is that? Now, that is up to us to decide. That is the tricky part. That is always the tricky part.

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