Here it is, the last forty-one minutes of my birthday. I sit listening to the "Random Shit Mix" Abigail gave to me, gazing through the haze of conflicting stimulants at words made to make sense only through my intention. The uppers are fighting with the downers, and my system is exerting its perplexity-empowered self-drugging to maintain whatever fragile balance I'm meant to have. It's calming and energizing at the same time. I am in power, but I am not in any state to exert myself.
I woke this morning intending to write a judgment of the last year, or a "things I have learned", or a breathtaking tale of how I have changed in this year. The issue being I haven't changed. I maintain the same space, I have the same hair, and the same tastes. I intend the same ends, I believe in the same God. I find that comforting.
Last year, I distinctly remember thinking to myself that a year is an unthinkably long time. I remember thinking more than once over the course of this year that it has been passing with exceptional leisure. It has been taking its sweet time, and events haven't so much unfolded as grown like olive trees. It has been a slow, busy, educational and exceptional year. I also feel at this moment as if the time is over suddenly and without warning. Weird mind.
I think Buster Keaton said it best when he chose not to speak.
Good night, esteemed ideas. Take on clothing and walk like men.