The Earth has looped its orbit,
and the year is done. I recall saying the same thing at this very moment last
year. Then, with the dawn of the very next day, the fervor of the previous
night seemed to fade, as if consumed by the monotony of the routine that swept
over. Much in the same way, the ritual of dating documents would soon be
revamped to the point where the last digit fades to make room for the new 5. That
would remain the only tactile reminder of newness for a couple of weeks, and
then, shrouded in monotony, it would eventually lose even the residual appeal
that comes with novelty.
The steady tick-tock of the
minute hand inches toward midnight, like the breath before a long-awaited sigh.
Here I sit beneath the canopy, surrounded by a sea of faces, men, women, and
children, each one a vessel of anticipation, gathered to welcome the
long-anticipated New Year. The stage is awash in strobe lights, pulsing like a
heartbeat, in harmony with the music that fills the air. The singer's voice
weaves through the night, casting a spell that draws the crowd into a swirling
dance of joy and release. It takes me a while to adjust to the stark transition
from the imposing silence of my room to this so-called symphony of throbbing
beats, a cacophony that feels almost tyrannical at first. The sound presses
heavily against my senses, until I will myself, with deliberate effort, to find
peace within its relentless rhythm.
I reflect on the days when I
yearned for such celebrations and let myself fade into the thrill of the
moment. Back then, I eagerly anticipated blending into the camaraderie of
friends, with just one agenda in mind, fun and revelry. I stir this
reminiscence to anchor myself in the present, attempting to plug back into the
ambiance enveloping me now. Yet, I struggle to reconnect, like a fledgling
yearning to soar after its mother bird but held captive by the weight of an
unshakable fear. As a result, parallel thoughts begin to drizzle into my mind.
I recall the sayings of sages about living in the present, their voices echoing
faintly in the corners of my memory. My brain conjures a dozen imagined lips,
spilling wise words in a hurried flurry, while a cascade of vivid film frames
unspools another episode of the same theme. My body, caught in this stream of consciousness,
reacts instinctively. I feel my feet, almost of their own accord, tapping in
rhythm, syncing with the pulse of the moment.
Nothing more unfolds beyond this.
Abiding the custom of keeping company with my family, I stay rooted in the
scene until the fireworks erupt, their brilliance announcing the arrival of the
new year. We indulge in some sugary delights, having triumphed over a few after
a notable struggle through a long queue. As we return home, our conversation
meanders between murmured appraisals and dismissals of the evening’s spectacle.
The biting chill of the fog-laden midnight numbs not just our fingers but the
warmth of the words, leaving them to drift ineffectually into the night as we
make our way back home.
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As always, I decide once again to
let the impact of this spectacle settle and precipitate over time. It’s an
idiosyncrasy of mine—a peculiar trait—that I tend to register the essence of
new experiences much later than others do. Anyhow, perhaps I have drifted too
far from the matter at hand, the dawn of the New Year, which we shall now call
2025. My warmest greetings to all who are ready to embrace this seemingly
monumental shift in their lives. However, I urge you to take a moment for a
sincere introspection of your journey. Ask yourself: is your life as fragmented
as the unsolicited break-up of years, those fleeting cycles you never aided
Earth in completing, or does it reflect a perception genuinely defined by 365
days well and truly lived?
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