And so it is that another year passes. As sneakily as the last. And as suddenly as the next. All over the world, people will dance and drink and demolish themselves before the great ticking hands of time, awaiting the very moment of annual change when lips will meet, strangers and lovers alike, and for one second all will be equally intoxicated and alive.

What a year, they all will say.

For me, it has been a year lived deep in the art of survival. I wrote with hunger for the page. I sang when I was given the stage. I made a record and a book I believed in. I lost some and gained some. I spent the year in love and on the road. I learned the perpetual lesson of sorrow and the strength it can produce.

Out there in the world, there has been turmoil and revolution. Still the power of money is inarguable, though a million kids slept in tents and marched against it. Still injustice clings to the backs of the poor and underfed, though they filled the squares and toppled Dictators. Still the clatter of violence dirties up the television screen. Still the earth shakes cities to the ground, spews fire and dust, and floods streets with the sea. Still the massive wheel of capitalism turns. Still we know it isn’t right.

Yet, another year. Perhaps this will be the one: a year of collective resolution. To do or die. And perhaps, I’ll make another record.

Cheers.

p.s. Stay tuned for the next entry in my Winter Short Story Series, coming after New Years, and hopefully before the world ends.