We’re here, the final day of 2017 has come upon us. The 2017th year of our western civilisation has come to a close. How are you feeling? It is a mixture of excitement and nostalgia, relief or simply nothing?
This whole concept of time and years ending is something that completely baffles me; knowing that someone, somewhere decided that a year has 365 days, 12 months, and 52 weeks. I wonder if it’ll ever truly make sense that something as elusive as time is expressed in something as adamant as numbers and figures.
If you think about it, a year can either be a vast amount of time or hardly substantial. As a Dutch female my life expectancy is 83 years; a single year in over eight decades is peanuts. Except I have no insurance I’ll get what is expected. Maybe this upcoming year will be my last, then the next 365 days will get a whole other meaning.
It would be my last spring, my final hazy summer days and one last Christmas. Suddenly getting older isn’t something I’d dread, but something I’d want above anything else. I wouldn’t patiently wait for him to call, I’d do it myself. I couldn’t start a sentence with ‘maybe in the future…’, because I wouldn’t have one.
See, I could have written about champagne, the failure of new year’s resolutions or the things I have learned in this past year. In fact, I’ll do it now; don’t stop the supply of bubbly alcohol, I’d love to see more sunsets and I am strong-ass woman.
But as I was reflecting on these past 8760 hours, one thing stood out. With my youthful arrogance I tend to believe that time is something that I’m owed – it’s not. Time is bizarre, precious and fleeting.
All that is left for me in 2017 is immense gratitude, for having been bestowed with yet another year filled with countless ups and sporadic downs. And when it comes to 2018, hereby I’ll pledge to honour the time I get; even those hours stuck in the library.