It's the most wonderful time of the year

It's the most wonderful time of the year 

So I think I'm having a quarter-life crisis. Though I have no way of confirming that it is, in fact, a crisis. For I have never been through a crisis before. I am, after all, an arguably decent human being. An angel, really. Well, that was that one time when I had a minor run-in with the law, but I would regard that as nothing more than a mere whoopsie-daisy. A real rebel I am! Whatever this thing is, it feels more. Feels like a real story. Wait no, it IS a real story. For I am the master of this domain, and I can spout whatever I want. I say dance, and these words scream "how high?" How high indeed must I reach till I am enough? Enough for who, really, and enough for what? Well, just enough then! I would like to be adequate. 

"But that's not enough," says these words. How disobedient. "Etymologically speaking, to be adequate means to be at a certain standard. Are you at a certain standard, An Wen?" Shades of disdain loom over the canvas. The light fades into a creeping, sinister black. How dare they speak to me this way? I am their voice. I gave them life and meaning, passion and purpose. I am the hand that gave them birth. I am...not in control. "No, I don't think I am. Not yet anyway."

I ask myself if this is the life I have been waiting for. Diligently questioning the expanding, inexorable cosmos in a tongue alien and unfamiliar. Most days fill me with this inexplicable sense of loneliness as I stare out at the infinite nothingness, puzzled at its indifference to my well-being. Then there are days where flashes of color streak across the black horizon, heading to an unbeknownst destination, presumably bringing gifts to wherever it lands. Its dazzling trail fills me with deep joy, for I know it will head for me one day. I just know it. It will find me and fulfill my unconscious desires. I think I deserve a gift this year. I have been nice. I have been a good boy. 

"And what is good and evil in this wicked world?" The words pry, mocking my grasp of moral ethics. "And who are you to draw your own judgment?" Well, I would like to think I have evolved into an animal of ironclad principles. I live and breathe by these little, shall we say, essential inconveniences that I have dubbed human fundamentals. I go rabid when one gets led astray from my tight-knit pack. They must be groomed real polished and shiny, beaming with pride on my shelf of make-believe values. They must not be tainted. I'm serious. I can be a real ugly Kant about these things. 

But that's the key to life on Earth, isn't it? To exist through your own set of philosophical rules, because at day's end, those are the only things left to benchmark your humanity. Faith gets consumed by fear. Hope masqueraded as delusion. Love contorted to an exhausting compromise. But these beliefs will never waver, even after self-inflicted trials and tribulations. Even after you betray your flesh and mangle into something inhuman. We are all supermodels by design - let these principles guide us there, and let them make beautiful our grotesque personas. 

The world seems different now that the rain has subsided. I used to see even the most challenging predicaments through rose-tinted glasses, but realised that made me oblivious to the pools of emotional bloodshed that remain even after torrential downpours. The stubborn mix of sentiment blue and red carnage turns me morose. Like one of those uh...avoidant people. Primal instincts, perhaps. I'd hate that, but I understand equilibrium is an unruly beast to tame. Life is too short to hold back on your words, but too long to endure the suffering that comes from it. 

To all those who had an unpleasant year, rejoice in its end. Rejoice for another shot at salvation. To chase your aspirations or whatever, but I suggest remaining cautious. If anything, this year taught me that the more I ask, the less I got. And they still ask me to dream. Only in someone else's reality I would. "Is that not the point, though?" These damn words. "To draw breath as pollen in a meadow is to live without significance. Without real outcomes. Without real consequences." 

What the heck are you even saying? Anyways, with my rambles coming to an end, allow me to move on to pleasantries. Thank you for coming this far into my spontaneous soliloquy. For lending sight to these haphazardly arranged words, and for opening your mind to these argubly abhorrent thoughts. Your pulsating heart continues to pump much-needed encouragement through my malnourished veins. To those who found solace from suffering in silence, remember that such comfort endures only until the quiet becomes deafening, and be assured that this too shall pass. Things will get better again. 

Anything else you would like to impart? "Merry Christmas?" The words mutter anxiously, dreading my reaction. Thankfully, my hands are as forgiving as they are demented. 

Merry Christmas everyone, and have a dandy new year :)