January, is typically a time of overwhelming enthusiasm coupled with the budgetary restrictions that follow the hedonism that is December. It's typical for a person to splice through January with the focus and precision of a Jedi Knight, but my January has been slightly different.
Yes, it's been decorated with the usual scrapings of introspection & narcissism but more than anything else it's been a time of realisation. I've lived for some thirty odd years but at this point, more than ever, I've started to feel old and not the comical curmudgeon rants of nostalgia & confusion that appear in waves throughout the year - Why does Byron need his own franchise, Captain Bird's Eye didn't - but a different type of old, the old that comes from having not seized and created opportunities, the old that stems from being entrenched in societal norms, the old that realises that passions and energy do dwindle with time.
It's a harrowing place to reside because to accept it, means acknowledging the absence of youth and that if your future is/can be modelled on your present, then the remainder of this prelude to middle aged-hood will contain more numbing & unfulfilling routines.
- I write in order to avoid talking, for you see as a human, I suck at talking.
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