Blogmas 2020 Day One: Another, Please?

Hello.
Another year. Another Day One. Another Hello. Another year of Blogmas. (you can read the previous years here)

The year has been apathetic to everyone, to say the least. So, there'll be no talk here about it.
It's Christmas, after all.

And, as impartial times this year have been, the varied perspectives looking at the stunted burgeoning as people has lingered long enough. Growth is incontestable, esoteric, and loud.

I've been opining, and abstracting our lives to be an endless file room, with a myriad mantles after mantles lined with every second we've spent compassing, committing, executing, feeling, breathing, living, or not. Imagine, walking through such an arbour, and pulling out a file at chance. Imagine, pulling a file outlining everything you went through in a second, that you'd grown heedless about it. Imagine, musing over this one second, bringing forth all the seconds you've been deliberately, and snugly tucking away in files marked confidential. Imagine them aggregating up in silence over the years; parts of you, you wouldn't even bother acceding to anymore; and imagine, spilling your beautiful self all over the floor, when nudged the wrong way.

What happens to us lying there like that then; bleeding, dazzled, overwhelmed?
When that pressure you're trying so hard to sew, wraps about you like a mesh? You can still see life on the outside through its gaps, but in your foreground is that every second you were never prepared to confront, the ones you never thought much of; constantly closing itself into a tighter weave, and shutting you off from the life you were so busy building for yourself. Now, either you can absorb this weave of impossibility, and let it play a part in your life, or you can let it envelope you thoroughly, because believe it or not, one day it will. 

If there's anything that I found fetching about us as humans, is that we're illustrated, albeit colourfully, but incongruously, by people around us. I used to conceive this as our grippingly, prismatic understanding of everyone. And, exploratorily now, I've been realising, that it's only because of which window of ours we allow people peek through. I get that, these little bits of surprises people find when they go looking for the other windows. But, most of us don't, for we're all more than happy pretending there's only but one window. We also know that all too well, because we all float in the same boat. And, also mostly because we've locked some of the windows, and thrown the keys in to a vacuum.

Carry yourself, your whole self with you. Always. It is a weight, sure. But, it's better than knowing there's a deadweight lurking somewhere behind you, waiting to droop your shoulders, break your back, ready to consume you bit by bit, until you fade for your own self.

So, when you count those moments, and feel the even sourer aftertaste of them lingering, will you miss your old self more, or remember it fondly, or distastefully?
Are there parts of your old self, that would you keep for yourself?

More tomorrow. Until then, wear a mask.

Artist: Pierre Kleinhouse

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,

A.