Turning

Another year is ending. According to one colonial-era source, indigenous people in the coastal region of North Carolina counted their age by the number of winters they'd seen. 

I was born during winter, so this would be my 38th that we're in right now. I think. I'm actually not sure.

Of course, our calendar is entirely arbitrary. It's just an attempt at making sense out of something senseless (time). A calendar, a dictionary, a clock, all of these things are attempts at imposing order on chaos.

But, for people whose cultures inherited the Roman system of time, it will soon be 2024. For Muslims, we're in 1445 AH. 

Without imposing systems of meaning, I think we'd go mad. This is largely because we have the luxury of time to worry about meaning and order. No longer are many of us bound to the desperation of survival that our ancestors faced.

In a miniature attempt at imposing order, many people will stay awake tonight until midnight to see the new year. This observation might soothe the existential anguish that seems to be increasing among Americans. 

We'll turn out the lights and go to bed. We'll wake up to the same life. Soon enough, this new year will feel just as heavy as the old, but we'll sit where we always do. We'll be with one another.

Remains the Same

11 years, 3 months, and 28 days since my last entry. 

There's no use enumerating all the changes, legion though they may be.

What has remained the same is the woman sitting next to me on this bed as she writes in her journal. 

There is a boy who still has a very elementary sense of wonder. 

We still live in the same city. 

There are still books, still music, still the relative fact of my youth - such as it is.

None of these things were ever guaranteed. 

I'll be 39 in less than a month. 

That is not guaranteed. 

But I'm still here.