I received a card from my Optometrist. A New Year's Card. It had a picture of the Goddess Lakshmi on it. She was riding a tiger with wings. This is my first happy new year card... ever. Is that odd? Is it odd that I'm writing about it like its a big deal? I don't know. I got a little reflective, pensive even..and started going through my stuff from the year that's been and found this bit of writing that I'd done on New Year's eve and completely forgotten about:
I'd written this at the fag end of a spiraled note book I'd carry to work every day. It had mostly work stuff and then suddenly I wanted that diary to stop being so damn hoity toity about itself and I wrote my actual thoughts on it. I don't know why I'd willed myself to forget about this.
Growing up I'd write plenty on my life in journals I'd unimaginatively name "Secret Diary". And that night something in me wanted to go back, be a kid and just plain bitch about things and refuse to even pretend that I'm a mature adult. I'm reproducing my writing here:
Welcome to the land of almost over diary. You are at the weird phase where you only have a few more pages left. Your owner thinks nothing substantial can really be begun or ended here. Well, look at her defying herself!! It's late and she suddenly feels the need to put pen on paper.
Also she must stay up to ensure she and her mom don't get robbed. It would be a little anticlimactic if the noises heard from the empty apartments upstairs do as a fact, turn out to be coming from thieves with guns who are planning to shoot their door down in the middle of the night, as conjectured by her mother.(And I wonder why I'm so imaginative about anything happening in the real world).
I have no idea why I'm talking about us in the third person.I guess it's because it makes us sound like more number of people than we really are: two. Two is supposed to be the most romantic number but for us mother and daughter it kind of signifies how hopelessly single we both are.
Look at me getting all up on your face about being single within the first page of I-don't-know-what-this-is midnight writing.
The issues that bother me are so mundane that I sometimes bore myself. That's why I read. Some days I read as many as ten books at a time and I hope and pray that I'm never in a place where I've finished all my reading all at once. Then the world would suddenly turn very dark because that's my definition of an apocalypse. So I keep starting new reading assignments.
(random rant about colleagues who were apparently bugging me a lot back then. They don't anymore. So it would be a little daft of me to reproduce that bit too.)
It's 31st December...and I'm extremely ready for 2014 to come over and sweep me off my feet. But time hardly ever does that. I think Time thinks that kind of romance is over-rated. As do I, now that I think about it. So maybe don't sweep me off my feet 2014...maybe just cuddle? Cuddling is good. "
If that night had a theme song it would be this:
Cut to 17 days into 2014...
things are starting to make better sense.Dare I say, Maybe even falling into their places? I don't know. I'm not actively doing anything, I swear. Just letting it be. Maybe I always really just needed to let it be...
I'm sending massive amounts of hugs and love your way, dear Readers.