The last day, of another year.
365 days to be exact. And somehow, the six hours extra dies just like a star in the lone universe.
Isn’t it fascinating we start celebrating the beginning of a year before the actual beginning? Or perhaps, it is our humane way of saying goodbye, to the past which was once our present, in a bit of haste to leave the present behind.
My pillow, feels like a sheet of ice (minus the temperature part), and the blanket is warm enough to lift the fog, off my mind. I keep staring at the ceiling feeling the sunlight on my face, as I strive for the darkness. This time a luminescence higher. The speaker behind me, keep playing the songs from my playlist and the most meaningful among them, I keep on humming silently in my brain,
“The hardest part of ending, is starting again. ”
I don’t actually know, or it is difficult for me to set the parameters between what is ending and what is starting. But the delusional me, notices the changes in a million of little ways others cannot perceive. Everything is spontaneous, and if we strip everything and all its inhibitions, we end up with ourselves, which is, in fact much spontaneous than ‘everything’ else.
My mind wonders as I feel the heavy lids of my eyes closing, mostly out of laziness as last day of every year, feels unique in a lot of ways. The emotions that have possessed and dispossessed us, this year leaves a lot of space in our life for us to fill, and sometimes fills up the empty spaces through which we breath. And at the very end, this arises an amalgamation of feelings which is unique every year, as we know life isn’t static but dynamic, and mostly it is miracle that we are breathing each day, surviving to see the next one.
I keep on wondering about the people, who won’t see the light of the next year, but it is amazing to see that they have survived through their death in the minds of the nearest and the dearest one, as for the loner, he is still breathing through the art he has left behind.
My palm twitches from the ink of the reminder I have written on it last night. Through the broken and faded letters, I recite, “Do share your bucket list. ”
And so here is something 2018, has given me and also something 2018 has taken away from me.
I have found my happy place, not into someone, but rather in writing. But what is writing without the ability to express yourself clearly?
Yes, it is an art as many of the people will agree with me. Everything should not be written with a sane mind or carry a meaning for the conventional, but sometimes the jumbled letters on paper make it much more beautiful than the yellowed hue and the empty spaces.
But as I said I have lost a lot this year too. It is like shedding the dead pieces of skin once in twenty-seven days. The inevitable cannot be stopped nor slowed down, but rather the feeling should be savored with an open heart. These uncertainties and constant changes give us a reason to live and witness the ‘tomorrow’.
Lastly, from February to December these eleven months I have learnt a lot especially from this blogging community and all the people who are writing and making this world beautiful.
I am waiting for tomorrow, living through the miracle of today—The first Day.