We humans like to divide our lives up into cozy little boxes. From our genres on Netflix, and taxinomic labels for animals all the way down to who we are and see others. We like to force time into little boxes too; a 15 minute box for a call, a 60 minute box for food, a work week and a weekend, four of those to a month, how has it been a year.
What does a year mean, past the rotation of this rock around a pinpoint of light. What does it mean to us as a people? A year older, a year of accomplishments, or of opportunities not taken. A year of waiting; of waiting for news that doesn’t come or of news that came too late. A year of work to get ahead, only to fall apart. A year means no more than deciding that this earth-worm is a Lumbricus terrestris or that film is definitely a dark comedy; we’ve decided that.
The waiting though, that is what will get to you. Waiting to start the next step, or waiting to stop this program, or waiting to pack another goddamn box. It’s easier to stop waiting, and just settle into the regular rhythm of life in a box in a corner of a cube in a block of a town in a county in a state in what is left of a country. One year wasted, what’s the difference of another.