In the far off distance the bells ring midnight and reverberate off the cold night air, as if it were a solid thing. I think back to this time last year. Where did the time go? Where did all those past good intentions disappear to? Where is all that resolve, did it just dissolve? Is that iron will gone? Has it rusted to nothing? Washed over and eroded by the rivers of time and the relentless drudgery of day to day existence?
“I’ll start tomorrow”, you tell yourself.
It’s always better to start these things on a weekend, slash new week, slash at the end of the month, slash when I get paid. Slash, slash, slash go the pages of the calendar. Falling away as in some old heavy-handed movie, trying to illustrate the passage of time. An abstract concept at best, a human construct to explain the unexplainable. An attempt to rationalise the total waste suffered by the majority of humans, as they live their lives. Unassuming and unfulfilling. Where did it go? “Well that was your life, done and dusted, who’s next?” You can imagine the dismissal and look of distain on judgement day. God, if she does exist, must be getting pretty pissed off by now. “I gave you a life, and free will, and what have you done with it?” The exasperation echoing down the eons.
When I was younger, I used to imagine all the things I would achieve. All the riches I would earn. The promise was almost palpable. My dreams were the stuff of legend. There was nothing I couldn’t do if I put my mind to it. Oh well, just two letters and an apostrophe out. Some sixty years on and I still haven’t become a fit Adonis with a six pack like a jelly mould. I still can’t speak fluent Spanish. I still cannot for the life of me knock out a tune on the alto sax. Most disappointingly of all I’m also no closer to being financially independent. New year’s resolutions would seem to be the adult version of our childish dreams and ambitions. But don’t let them fool you, we are still no closer to realising the foolishly high expectations we set ourselves each year. It’s just that our targets are, on the surface of it at least, more attainable. We only ever resolve to do things that are, or should be, well within our grasp. So, our failure to meet just one of these targets over the decades worth of new year’s eves’ that have passed, makes me begin to question the need to continue this farce.
Consequentially, I will from this year forth retire myself from the race to achieve the unachievable. Besides, once you leave your sixth decade behind what is the point of planning a whole year ahead? You’re just setting yourself up for the fall. No, when I reach that final gasp of air, at least I will be bowing out with nothing left undone. Nothing left on my to do list but fold my hands upon my chest, to make it easier for the undertaker.
A Life On The Shelf 