Plain Transition

For the last three years or so now, I've welcomed the new year rather somberly, without fanfare or great expectations; dully even, and very tame compared to when I was much, much younger, full of hope, morally-upright, adventurous, and inured to the blows of misfortune. I have neither used fireworks, nor had resolutions or superstitious rituals. They never did work for me. Evil and misfortune have not been driven out of the world where I move. They're always there, like some vital organ or appendage.

There remains this faint prayer, though (more of a wish, actually), that I may have the courage to go through another year, despite the lack of anything major to look forward to; that January to December transpires in a blur, in order that despair will be brief, and will not take hold; and, of course, my regular pleas for the welfare and benefit of some people, including promises of heaven and earth in exchange for great riches. Might be that Heaven has become deaf to my supplications, or merely testing my resolve? If the former, then I'm done for the rest of my miserable life; if the latter, I'm hoping that all my senses are sufficiently intact for me to enjoy the coming of good things.

I do not wish to live to a ripe, old age, if that would mean being even partially reliant on another person to move the short distance between points A and B; or to purchase even the most basic of necessities; or to even be only marginally happy. Not for any of these. In fact, there are times when I feel I've outlived my usefulness, and that I should just sit back and watch life go by, and let everyone live as they please, and things happen as they will. The opinionated in me, however, often wants to take to the forefront of things. I always have something to say about something or someone, some good, some bad; and all of them are just opinions, some based on facts and some, merely on harsh criticisms. They maintain my participation in life's affairs. At other times, I'm totally disinterested in whether good or bad happens, or if anything happens at all.

I feel I've lost my desire for lofty dreams. Could this finally be elusive contentment? But I'm not really happy, though. Resigned would be the more appropriate word. I've much simpler pleasures now, because they are all I could afford. Every now and then I hear about other people's successes, and I always say to myself those could have been my own. I pined, planned, and lived for them! There is always the tinge of envy there, to be honest about it.

Life, I think, is simply too big a mystery I'm ill-equipped to understand and appreciate. Like my own set of eyes, my view of it is rather myopic. Thinking about it, I've not been very good at having foresight or being forward-looking. I'm this reflex and instinct person, and couple this with my being emotional and sentimental, they spell frequent disaster. My life seems to be a collection of one impractical decision after another, of one mistake after the next. I can't seem to get it right the first, second, third, or even fourth times. I may have been born to be this crass. I dream impossible dreams, and fight lost causes. I'm a man from La Mancha.

At night, as soon as everything falls silent, I hear those familiar sounds, the ones from when failures and uncertainty began. They're swishing, swooshing, thumping, droning monotones (chiming ones on Sunday mornings and afternoons), pleasing to an extent, and which can lull me to sleep, but not before causing me loneliness and regret. I've branded them "the sounds of being left behind."

I'm pretty certain my sins of commission and omission are among the reasons behind my crippled fortune. I've done some of the nastiest deeds on the planet, and have failed to do some of the most rightful ones. I've also broken many a mirror, and if the superstition holds some water, combining this with my sins would entitle me to more than a single lifetime of bad luck. My prospects are genuinely dim then.

Last new year's eve my son must have noticed my moroseness, and flatly declared that waiting for the new year wasn't as exciting as in years past, that there were less fireworks, fun, and anticipation. I told him that was rubbish. He is going to start college this year, and that marks no less than another exciting stage in his young life. So there. I've not outlived my usefulness yet after all. Someone still looks up to me for guidance and inspiration. I think now my own folks did the same thing. Our life wasn't easy, but at the time it sure looked like it was. They worked their magic and us kids saw life and the world with eyes of amazement and hope. I can't recall seeing them look defeated; pensive, yes, but never hopeless. I think they understood their roles and our expectations of them. They are a hard act to follow. In my eyes they will always be among the finest of the human race.

And so I must remain steadfast, firm in the midst of alternations of hope and hopelessness, with the latter taking a bigger chunk each time in its cycle, and the former gradually becoming unrecognizable and extinct. I must be firm (or at least appear to be), for the sake of those who still think I can pull them through life's quagmires, the small dedicated few who have nary a clue as to my ineptness and unworthiness. I must be around for them for still quite some time.

I'm aware I'm on a journey, as everyone else is. Long ago, I was awed by a lot of things along the way. It was a natural consequence of experiencing things for the very first time. I thought I would never run out of them, but right now I feel I already have. Or maybe there are still some left, and that they are more hidden now, not readily obvious or apparent, and so I have to look harder. There may still be a few laughs out there. Could be. We'll see.