How do you measure a year in the life?
In truths that he learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that he died
The radio silence of late is but a natural consequence of the black hole I fell into shortly after my last entry. Nothing could escape it - not light nor sound. I suppose one can only hope that if the gravitational forces do not tear you apart, then black holes are indeed nothing but huge rips in the fabric of space-time. Or swirling tunnels that will eventually spit you out on the other side - wherever that may be.
It was not at all a bad year, but I do believe this was my unhappiest Yuletide season to date. Not just your garden-variety Christmas blues; more of a profound existential break that, alas, has produced anomie instead of epiphanies.
But then again, not all Christmases can be bright.
May the explosions tonight herald that the end to my own implosion is in sight. Because I don't think I can endure another 525,600 minutes of this gaping bleakness.
And as for you, blog friends, followers, and foes, may your own New Year be bright.
And now to all, a good night.