It makes me nervous. I don't even know why. As if something precious is slipping from my hands before I could enjoy it to my heart's content. As if one more leaf is turned in the yellowing book of my days. As if I had been given a year's time to do a set of important tasks and I am nowhere close to their termination. As if someone is at the door, hand outstretched for the results, whereas I, quickly wiping my soiled hands on my apron, find myself totally unprepared and alarmed, look around frantically to see if I can fix something up to fool the visitor and end up doing nothing but gape. One would expect me to improve over time, that next December would find me better prepared, displaying better results, demonstrating more confidence and composure when the knock at the door heralds the arrival of the New Year. All in vain.
I finally am convinced that this is how it is going to be, every year.
Yet, yet... ironically, it is also the time of Hope. All the distress and disappointments carried over from weeks and weeks of unrewarded efforts, stand poised for the dawn of the fresh year, awaiting a long pending realisation of dreams. Whatever the New Year brings, every December, there is still Hope of better days to come, as long as there are dreams to keep us going.
Every year, that will remain unchanged as well.
Post inspired by Divya's The many moods of December.