Ides of November

In a sense, this post is a #I_better_start_writing_again post. Actually that’s all it is, whom am I kidding, anyway. It started with a FB post about (not) judging women over their choices regarding career vs parenting. A friend, who only knew of my KandaBatata blog said it deserved a blog of its own, a non-KBNN blog. I don’t quite agree there, but that reminded me of this (sort of) abandoned blog. This year, I’ve written on average a post every two months — poetry, prose, reviews included.

Some years are gap years (in one respect or another, but sometimes in more respects than you care to be reminded of). Not in the well understood sense of the word, where you choose them to be such. They just happen to be such. They come and go. And as you look at them, like you look at the train you took a tad too long to get onto, and now have to watch the last few coaches whizzing past you at a speed too much to hop onto one. And too slow to feel the urgency of loss to register right then and there.

You look at such years, only in those slipping moments, when they’re almost a past, but not quite, trying to take stock of the unrealized plans. And sometimes, years like these pass, even without plans, without bucket lists, forty-three things, resolutions. Not because you’re too busy (which you probably aren’t) to make plans, or create those lists. Not because you’re too lazy (which you probably are, but not because you are). Not even because you were depressed, unhappy, stagnated, frustrated, or a million other variations of it. But just because it never occurred to you to make those plans, create those lists, make those promises to yourself.

Sure you had wishes. Sure you had hazy ideas about the year, and what you would like it to be, and no premonition that it would be anything but that — just a gap year, a lost year, a year that passed, adding a count to your age, and a few questions, and a few regrets. No not regrets. That would be too melodramatic. Regret presupposes a “I wish I would have done it differently” feeling. That’s not it at all. You know you couldn’t have done it differently, because you know that the gap year may not have been planned that way, but you signed up for it alright, and kept at it. You even ought to have lived it like that to really appreciate what could have been if you had seriously wanted it that way. If you had seriously thought it, willed it. You didn’t, because maybe you didn’t want it that way, really. Not deep within. Not at the price you may have had to pay.

And so in the fag end of the year you start looking back. And looking ahead, trying to amend in few days what never seriously occurred to you in all those preceding months. And back again to find the sliver linings. And ahead in desperation, knowing full well the futility of trying to change it. Trying to come to terms with the reality. Or the reasonability, probability, practicality.

Back to front. Front to back.

The silver linings light up the possibilities. The dark clouds hover around, with a pretense of omnipotence, in all reality hard to contest.

We try to fill in the gaps with things, and thoughts, and achievements. Things animate and inanimate. Victories. Joys. We let the luster of the silver linings illuminate those, making them look brighter, happier.

And then, reasonably, we start looking ahead, beyond the coaches, into the distance, for the signs of the next train. Promising oneself, I will not miss this one.

All while the last coaches are still moving past you, not too fast, not too slow.

 

 

 

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