Bookmark #804

I sit here, out of thought. I have, after all, just woken up. I must wait for a bit to have an opinion. It is absurd how I expect this out of myself as if it is perfectly normal: to have something to say, day after day. Mostly, my thoughts are slices of leftover pizza from last night: things I had to say to someone else but did not to maintain decorum, or avoid bringing a flood over their day, or keep a job. To keep mum is also a palpable talent if you do not get used to it and become someone who never says it, whatever it might be. We must learn to balance it out, like long, winding sentences stopped by short ones. But balance begets stability.

Now that November is here and the end of this year looks at me like a child peeking from behind the wall, I start to count if this year was any good. But these are complex problems in mathematics: putting time, almost kneading it, into a word. Prosperous, deplorable, celebratory, sadistic, transformational, cataclysmic; you could use so many. It is not an easy problem by any means, but we do it year after year. Then, when someone asks us, we tell them how it was such and such a year, almost as if none of what truly happened matters enough to count, only the big things, and sometimes, not even all of those.

But whether you agree or not (depending on if you have found a word to sum up your year in), the year will still have had three-hundred and sixty-five days. Well, it will have one more now and then; that but strengthens my position. I think it is a bit unfair, then, is it not, to put it into one word?

Or perhaps I am sour because I have been unable to define this year thus far. It was as run-of-the-mill as the sixth brand of cereal in the breakfast aisle of the supermarket. It was as regular as the expensive cup of coffee my tongue has gotten used to. It was as consistent as the haircut I have had for the past five years. It was as overbearing as time itself, as joyful as a new start. It was all that and more and a little bit less in places. Now, I sit here and wonder what comes next. There is no answer.

(The question, however, echoes in the silence of my apartment.)

There is still December.

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