December 31st, I write a letter to myself "open on March 2026-Spring solstice". The letter, written on the back of a vaccine brochure exists as a compromise.
"Dear Reader,
I am not sure why I feel like I am being forced to begin again on this arbitrary Wednesday, I mean, I know why- the last day of the year according to Pope Gregory's Gregorian calendar happens to fall on this day. Because of this 15th century Christian pope (and we thought we were "decolonized"), tonight, I will go see my friends, we will be singing, we will be dancing, and for some time before the end of the party, counting down the hours til the next day comes. And when he does come, we will fill our glasses with anxiety about the people have become, the people we have yet to lose, and raise a glass to the new people we will be hoping to become in the next few minutes.
Next day come, ethanol ran dry, we will look outside, and see that the air is still as parched, the trees are still as hollow, and the birds sit and solemn. There is nowhere for us to return to.
We were abandoned by the night before, hoaxed by a promise of change when in fact, we have been and will continue to be in the thick of winter's abdomen within which she yearns for us to settle, reflect, and wait for us to follow nature's regeneration.
Instead, we foolishly tear ourselves free from her grasp, starving our roots from the nourishment of winter's wisdom, just so we can pretend to start again, while the rest of the living world around us is forced to exist around our pace.
This letter is a compromise because it is an anti-resolution. I vow not to resolve anything.
Now, I sit, in the parched air, as hollow as the tree and as solemn as the bird— Until the snow regenerates into grass, The fed seeds vibrate in the soil, and the first sprout awakens in my garden. I follow her lead.
Until then,
Writer. "