The Truth About Time
My head had been spun enough that I craved steady for New Year’s Eve. I made basic chicken and potatoes. We ate at 6. Long nights of throbbing music, surrounded by frenetic strangers, and quantities of alcohol ensuring next-day misery long gone; my final night ending in 2024 was spent watching a movie about sobriety shot on a Scottish island, a non-linear timeline, alternately nightmarish and dreamlike, landscape back and forth between urban scruff and mossy crags and sea. It was perfect. I drifted off to bed and was asleep before 10.
The old year/new year as end and beginning has always seemed like a contrived excuse for a party. The truth is time has no real demarcation. It’s a messy continuum, punctuated by sleep, and each of us wakes to our own shifting season, rounded by the dash, or the dot dot dot.