I've thought about it for awhile.
I thought about making that last night's final words.
Sore throaty and headachey, I suggested to myself that I sleep on it one more night. Because I always believe a new day, a new month, a new year is going to make everything look new.
I don't. But I hope for the best.
Weirdly, though, I woke up this morning, sneezing and coughing, and everything was somehow brighter. Some energy had shifted.
Yesterday, I saw a lot of different people opining on why everyone makes such a big deal about the new year. I think it's simple. We need to account. We need beginnings and endings. We want--most of us, anyway--redemption or another shot. One more chance.
It's why Catholics go to confession. You get a clean slate.
The daughter was the last to drag herself out of bed this morning, and said, yawning, "I missed you all. I haven't seen you since last year."
"But," I replied with innocent astonishment. "It seems like just yesterday."
I'm no different from yesterday. Wonky body parts are just as wonky. I cooked meals like I always do. But the slate is clean and the year is young and new.
I've got another chance to write all over it. How can I resist that?
Go listen to some good music: "Violet Hill" from the album Viva La Vida by Coldplay.