I liken New Year’s Day to Lent, in that both elicit fleeting reflection and interim amendments.
Jesus, fuck. Cynical much?
No, I’m a (goddamned writer) pragmatic idealist.
When I was a practicing Catholic (married to my daughter’s father), Lent was the vilest time of year for me because I’d have to surrender something meaningful for forty days. For me, it was cigarettes. Only I’d light up on the sly; smoking was integral to my writing process, for fuck’s sake.
Why not just quit drinking instead?
Drunkenness is more difficult to conceal. Duh.
As an adult, I have never made a New Year’s resolution; the import of a New Year’s pledge is no greater than the one vomited into a toilet at 1 a.m. after celebrating Tuesday.
Listen. I believe in living my truths, spreading love, and advocating for those in need. I believe in the strength of the human spirit, and I stand by those who want to make a positive change. But I realize that those steps towards betterment must come from a genuine place. Often, when someone decides to try to live a more truthful life, a kinder, healthier life, they have been contemplating their own behaviors and existence for a good long while. And these are the people who are serious—who don’t wait for New Year’s Eve, or dread the coming of Lent.
I have no illusions of a happy new year. Shit happens. Life happens. All I can do is keep on keeping on—never give up, even when I want to because I’m a fucking human being who puts absolutely no stock into platitudes, and is just as vulnerable to the darkness as the next person.
All of that being said, I won’t wish you a Happy New Year. What I will do is send you love and good vibes; lend you my voice should you need the words; and offer the strength stored up in my heart should you need additional strength.