2012 has been a year of firsts, as I’ve noted before. From the fairly innocuous first science fiction novel and first real date in January to first birthday spent mostly alone in March, many firsts in May, June, July, August, September, October and November have brought me by degrees of excitement and apprehension to today, the first of December.
After the strength-sapping, execrable events of July and August, I resolved not to let this year be set down for posterity as the year in which I lost a parent in the worst way possible. I would not let Fate have that satisfaction. I would hold on to my anger, I would embrace my outrage and I would keep myself and my happiness intact in defiance. I have lived up to that resolve and more.
What a year.
And I know now that these are the years that change us.
These are the years that teach you how difficult it can be to simply wake up every morning and drag your tired body out of bed to face another bleakly mundane day.
These are the years that shatter your heart and your youthful pride; that make you stronger and tougher and wilder and better.
These are the years that make you snatch perfect happiness wherever and whenever you can find it and screw the consequences.
Catharsis and epiphany, arriving in the middle of a story that could be right out of a Greek tragedy, and you embrace them as your saviours and look to them to take you outside of your claustrophobic little existence.
I want to say something now about my friends, about the eccentric, clever, empathetic people I’ve been fortunate enough to find and keep interested in my paltry doings, but I don’t know how to put this gratuitous burden of love into words.
Because, you know, years like these couldn’t be survived without them.