On the last day of last year, I recognized a pattern of two camps. People who were to go out, and people who were to stay in. Because I tend to only go out roughly 100 times in most given years, I thought I’d get outside of my comfort zone. And boy will I tell ya, I still think I can dance.
Of course I was home by roughly 1 because I don’t afterparty the way I used to. Gosh, elderly old me in my mid-twenties. But at least I wasn’t in bed by 11:30. When I got home I began my annual bewitching hour reflection on year past. There is something of an empty feeling after being with a hundred people, and that night being no different than the other 363.
I will relay some of my anecdotes, although I will preface that this one was roughly 1/3 shorter than my usual yowling at the moon:
An insignificant existence looms in my room that has been empty except for one occupant for the past whenever and will be until the next whenever.
I write a lot about how beautiful the language is of those who die prior to the afterparty. An odd thing to aspire to. It is not so much that I am complacent with life, although much more so than I was when I was twenty-three.
People can say they don’t care what people think until the cow comes home or the crow comes to roost, but I do. I wish the world knew me for who I was. I’m more like that nowadays than I’ve been for the past decade. I wished I was loved for who I am.
My life had meaning in it for about 10 years. It was a woman. It really was. You can’t force love, make someone love you, or love someone you don’t, even if the whole world depends on it. My life lost purpose.
Ben Bonkoske 