The big event is just two days away…  And for some reason, for me, this has always been the symbolic end of the year.  There’s Christmas, and that’s the end of the old year, and it’s dead.  And empty.  And then there’s New Years, and that’s the beginning of the next year.  And there’s just a blank space of no-time in between.  Like the week or whatever just doesn’t count.  The lost week.
Maybe this is because I was gift-centric when I was young, and this has never completely left me.  Or maybe it’s because most of the holidays when I was in school always encompassed both events and things just didn’t really get started back up until after the New Year.  Whatever the reason, it has never struck me until now that I lose (at least symbolically) a week every year.  Thirty-three weeks is well more than half a year, and that’s just so far.  It’s blank-time.  And it makes me wonder how much other time around the year I lose…  How much time I throw away and discount because it seems like a dangling participle to me, so I just snip it off.
Maybe the key to excellent living, effective living, is to use every moment.  Not to have no-time.  Not to have blank time which doesn’t count.  To wake up going and fall asleep on your feet.  To ride the old year all the way in to the station….
It’s just that Christmas has this … air of finality to it for me.  This sense that…  Everything good that could come out of this year has happened, and it’s best to just get on with it and have it be the next year already.  This sort of thinking was, of course, not a problem when I was younger and didn’t feel time’s tiny claws scraping me slowy away with their passing.  But coasts are worn away one grain of sand at a time I suppose, and like everyone who has gone before me and everything that will come after, I am finite, and I have become increasingly aware of this as time has passed.  Or rather, as I have passed time.
This will be the start of our second year here in the country of England, and it’s been a dreary winter this time.  None of the glistening blankets of snow and crisp, dry winds of winter to lift our spirits through it.  Just damp and cold.  Time flies just as quickly, but it’s dark for longer.  Wet more.  Still, you’ve gotta try, right?  Gotta make an effort.  To make something good of it all.  And really, it is lovely here.  In a stark anonymous way.  London swims like schools of fish, forever separated by the icy water all around each of us.  High above, in the darkling sky, Father Christmas makes his reconnaissance, checking us all out…  Getting a handle of the changed skyscape.  Winds gather high in the heavens shaking out a few lingering drops of moisture and the sun slips behind the clouds, bathing the city in a momentary preview of night.  Happy holidays.

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