I sit here now, in the last hours of my time in the Forever 27 club, never to visit again. I mentioned to Gooseberrie today that I am shocked that we both made it. Indeed I am.
This is a time of year that I am often pensive. It seems to me that I have not done enough, or lived enough, or loved enough. Most of all, I worry that I haven't been happy as I should be. How does that make sense; to worry constantly about not being happy? What is happy? And what on earth is 'happy enough'?
I find that I am not ashamed to say that I do not know. Not at all.
As I now enter this new, cursed year, I am filled with determination. I know that the time to worry about being happy must pass. I will probably never be happy. And that is okay. And the loneliness that surrounds me day in and day out, as I live and breathe and die with every living, breathing, dying breath is not a thing to fight anymore. It is my way of life. If that sounds morbid, then it is against my intention. This is not sorrow, but acceptance. And with it comes a strange sense of calm, one that I fear may soon be replaced with a sense of panic.
For tonight, I am alone, as I wish to be. And I hope tomorrow passes without pomp, ceremony or celebration. Quiet. That is what I want.
Happy almost Birthday to Good Old Me. Not many more of these left in me.
