the end of the year is not the end of the year.

there is nothing new under the sun, not even the last day of the year. we welcome the new year;
in anticipation, with excitement, with nonchalance, with indifference, with detestation, a little lethargy? or with hopefulness? or a little reflective of that gone year. or even a little childish, refusing to let go of the year. And yet.
there is nothing new in these responses. have we attached too much significance to a date?
we hope for a great new year. but there is nothing new in the year. A change in a numerical digit. another year will come. we return to somewhat familiar places. we indulge in old pleasures. we devise old schemes. we abandon old games. and then we return. old ones pretending to be new.

there are seasons of change. seasons that are always familiar, only re-experienced in various variations. in sundry times and in diverse ways, we experience different things similarly, or similar things differently. yesterday's seeding is tomorrow's harvest.
and so we remember today, because we forget about yesterday. and today's memories are never as they were. every moment remembered is a moment imagined. so i live to forget, as i remember. i am to be forgotten, just as i am to be remembered. there is nothing left, and nothing beyond that.

and still, we have a stubborn faith. a faith we cannot strip away, lurking at some inward pit that drags us across sandpits. a faith that cannot manifest itself and cannot perform. it traps you in this warm and frizzy halo and budges us through tracks we would have refused and completely ignored.
and still, we travel through obscure roads and climb unknown mountains. there is nothing new under the sun. but with this strange faith, our eyes are blind, our minds are mad and our limbs are bruised. and still we walk the unknown and experience always a new day, and a new year. because there is no moment past that we can declare that it has been experienced before. it frightens us as much as it excites us. and so we move with snail speed, not with relentless will, but with a will that alienates us as much as it comforts us. i cannot name this faith. i do not know how. but with every journey, every true and new one, means a new season that changes us and delivers us from somewhat old ones, teaching us new perspectives to old narratives and skills to climb old walls. And yet, we have this faith.

so let go. and fall. because to fall means to be lifted.

Paulo Grey
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i disappear, only to appear.