an honest close to the year
a 2024 journey through time, nerves, and examination
The last week of the year has me hunkered over the sink, scrubbing out the pit stains of a turtleneck I thrifted.
Usually, I’d like to reserve the end of the year for reflection and fall into a state of soft and malleable disassociation, dialing in and out of the world like a camera lens. This sense of a hazy and indistinct existence grows especially strong when the winter sun sets, casting the world in premature darkness; when the days blur together with no sense of when or what is happening; when the pings, alarms, and notifications die down, and silence blankets the air, as if everyone has entered a deep slumber together.
But rather than hibernate in that velvet gloom, I find myself in spurts of exertion, rushing to finish these minute tasks in fear that if I don’t finish them before the year ends, they’ll never get done.
Broil. Slip. Hit. Marinate. Vacuum. Wipe. Shuffle. Organize. Listen. Tease. Respond. Between all these verbs, I’m just trying to think about how the year went, why I ended up here, and how I might like next year to go.
I certainly have regrets
They mostly have to do with time. I ask myself: Did I spend my time well?
It comes as no surprise that I have little sense of balance. I tend to operate at the extremes: full-sloth or full-manic. It’s far easier to adapt to inertia or momentum rather than stick to a steady drip-feed of activity, which explains why most of my year was dominated by bed-rotting and traveling.
Despite thoroughly enjoying the activities above, my sense of time grew distorted, and any attempt at routine went off the rails. It was the first time I had so much free time ever to spend at my discretion, and I gorged on this utter lack of urgency. Believing you have all the time in the world is intoxicating. I packed and cleared my schedule at regular intervals, able to cancel or adapt plans as I pleased, the unintended consequence being time began to feel more superfluous rather than finite. Deep down, I knew I shouldn’t take this abundance for granted, but the value of time continued to devalue until recently.
This past fall, I visited upstate New York to participate in a reading retreat, wholly removed from the outside world and technology. With little distraction to chip away at our attention, we contented ourselves by reading, eating, watching the autumn leaves, and napping under the willow tree by the pond. I’d glance at my watch and start with surprise – how much time was left to do so many things! Immersion made time fly, but I felt every hour, minute, second of it. Time unfurled towards an indeterminable horizon, each unit of time gaining depth as though through a stereoscope.
To keep pace with a world that stood still, I had to slow down.
Whether I break out of this relentless cycle for good or settle for gaming my own systems, the feeling of time is what’s critical. It doesn’t matter how much time I have or how I spend it; I need to be aware of time’s tangibility, and how to to expand, stretch, compress, and mold it at will. In that way, I learned to be more patient and take my time. As someone who shares more similarities with a racecar on the verge of crashing rather than an ascetic, I realize this is no small lesson and will take this as a victory.
Note: Applications for the Matthew Strother Center for the Examined Life reading programs are now live until January 19th! Cannot recommend this experience enough, especially for folks who want to transform the way they read.
Then there are the joys
Most of which emerged from unexpected corners. I didn’t expect to join a small group of kindred spirits who, like me, wanted to introduce a little more art and beauty into their lives. Spending time with these individuals nudges a different future within view, one where imagination becomes a fact of reality and expression is embraced rather than cause for embarrassment.
But it’s good to embrace embarrassment sometimes. When there were show-and-tells, I read my writing to people for the first time. For someone who likes to talk an awful lot about writing, I arrived late to the show of actually showing my work to others. Little can describe the extreme cringe I felt reciting lines that suddenly sounded so banal, transitions crude, and conclusions trite. But I survived, even though my heart felt liable to give out at any moment, which gives me faith that I can survive a few more times.
Embarrassment also leads to exhilaration, the type that pairs well with anticipation as the rollercoaster you’re strapped into inches closer to that inevitable drop. Through sheer serendipity, I learned how to DJ and performed in front of strangers for the first time earlier this year. Stepping behind the decks, I wanted to die – especially when I saw the controller, far more intimidating and advanced than the one I owned, and couldn’t find any of the buttons. It’s over for me, I thought when the first track wouldn’t load. My hands shook so hard that I might as well have played with my forehead or toes.
The only reason I’d ever subject myself to that level of barely-treading-water, gasping-for-air anxiety again is because of the next ten minutes. My favorite song in the little set I put together finally blared into existence. The crowd suddenly convulsed, as if they’d been struck by live wire. ‘I did that,’ I thought. I pulled them back into awareness, the hyper-present, the overwhelming, animalistic urge to dance.
Dance was a particular source of joy for me this year. I encountered many dance floors at music festivals, wedding venues, concert halls, and late nights out. As someone who grew up unfamiliar with the ways of communion, squeezing tight against my friends in tight crowds, sweating or shivering profusely depending on the weather, egging each other on to be bigger, bolder, better, stars entering our eyes as we beheld the spectacle of the stage before us, swaying to the rhythm of the night may be the closest to a religious experience I’ll ever achieve.
Maybe the key to joy is sweat. Whether from the nerves, movement, or effort, sweat reminds me, when I strip down my layers and taste the salt on my skin, that I’m alive.
The aliveness
The number of times I said, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” just to have my friends echo it back to me was strangely calming. As much as I’d love for everyone to have their shit figured out so we didn’t have to agonize over said shit, perhaps it’s this collective sentiment and constant space of tension that allows us to ask the really important questions.
This past year, I asked:
What do I want?
Is this what I want, or what I think I want? Or is it what people want of me?
What do you want?
What does intuition actually sound like?
Want to hang out? Want to grab food?
What are you afraid of? What am I afraid of?
Does what I do or love matter?
Have I wasted my potential?
Did I screw up? Did I make a mistake? Is it too late to try to fix it?
Why am I so tired? What would give me energy?
Where do I belong? What is my place in this world?
Am I sick?
Should I stay in or go out?
What’s holding me back?
What’s the matter with you? With me?
Am I an idiot? Am I lazy? Am I a bad person?
Why would anybody love me?
Am I onto something?
Can I ask you something? Can we talk? Can I share something with you? Can I be honest with you?
What’s going to happen?
Some of these questions are borne out of curiosity, others out of fear and doubt. Many of them have to do with the future and my relationships. The most difficult ones deal with my sense of self and who I am in all my dimensions.
Not being able to answer these questions often dismays me. An answer that satisfies me does not come easy, if at all, and the struggle to maintain the equilibrium of a “well-adjusted” person while grappling with these questions presents mounting contradictions, all fighting for space inside me. The abundance of time means an abundance of navel-gazing, and I have arrived at another hard truth: that being alive means to keep asking questions, which may or may not get answered.
Good for people who thrive on the unknown. Bad for people like me who, despite beating their chests and crowing on about how adaptable they are to an ever-changing slew of circumstances, do crave certainty – or rather, the promise of a happy ending.
But aliveness exists within these binaries, the push-and-pull as we slingshot from one end of the spectrum to the other. Aliveness is the thread that binds answers to choices; what charges our choices with importance and ladens them with weight.
At least, this is the sense I get when I play with my sister’s baby, chat with my partner, or gaze at all the material before me, ready to be worked. When I crawl up a steep outcropping, rocks slippery beneath my trembling hands, wondering if I’m going to survive long enough to see what the world looks like behind a waterfall.
Sometimes, the answer creeps upon me so suddenly and becomes so obvious that I must do everything in my power, throw up every objection and fear, so as not to make answering the question so easy.
It does not mean the answer must lead to a choice. The answer may change at any point or run like a rabbit, fleet into the brush. The only trace of existence is its footprints carving out a path, a path which I must follow.
Ah. The pit stains have been removed! What a time to be alive.
My friend A asked whether I’m participating in another episode of “Disassociation, Debauchery, and Dumbassery” on the last day of the year. I tell her I regularly participate in all three, albeit rarely at the same time. By chance, somehow, such an occurrence came about last night.
Last night, I went to a set with my friends. On the way there and back, we cracked stupid jokes and tried to see who could jump high enough to touch the street signs far above our heads. I nearly threw out my back and almost certainly blew out my eardrums on the floor. And in that chaotic haze, an idea seeped into my mind like water, cool and oh so clear, sinking into bedrock, followed by another idea, then another.
This is to say… next year, I resolve to follow the thread of these ideas and see where they lead me in the hopes I can catch a wider glimpse outside the labyrinth this time. (And bring ear protection the next time I go to a concert).
Final notes… it’s been about a year since I first joined the online vale of Substack, and I’m grateful to all of you who have stuck around. It’s simultaneously stunning and humbling to see how varied everyone’s perspectives and vast the world is. Looking forward to another year here with you all ✨
So happy new year to everyone! Feeling tired, a little hungry, motivated, but most of all, feeling grateful for all the beautiful people and things in my life!