On the threshold.
Well, that was a lot.
This year was not nothing, let me tell you. This year everything stopped and somehow carried on at twice the speed and intensity.
This year I bought so many books, my shelves are full, and we will not discuss the state of my bank account, but my shelves are full, and my shelves are my heart.
This year there has not been an extra millimeter of room in my heart. My heart has been so full all this time, exhausted from running all day, every day, with more and more weight piled on it, joy and misery clinging to each other and sobbing.
This year I learned to cry again, and I laughed loudly at terrible jokes. I published a book. I got married. I arranged my office to my satisfaction.
This year I felt proud of myself. This year I felt profoundly disappointing. I loosened my grip on being afraid of myself, afraid of being judged, afraid afraid afraid. There is more than enough outside to be afraid of. Sharing myself hasn’t gotten easier, but it feels more necessary to combat the “Who cares?” I hear in my head all the time.
I want this to have gone better. I want that for everyone who lost someone, for everyone who has been alone all this time, for all of us. I just wish this could have gone better, and I’m so angry, because sure, this year is ending, but the pandemic isn’t over, and nothing is over, it just has a different label, but doesn’t that matter at all?
I think it does. I hope it does.
Hope. What a concept.
I hope you have a really comforting movie lined up for tonight. For us it’s a double feature: The Apartment and Ocean’s Eleven. I’ll be raising a glass of Martinelli’s at midnight, seeing 2020 off and saying hello to 2021. See you on the other side.