Thirty Times Over; And Counting.
Thirty resolutions later with the hindsight of experience, a new one for the New Year 2019 should be in order. For in the horizon is a ray ; a ray I have known for thirty years to be an agent of failure, but one which I pray, determination can seize for hope.
Many of these very good resolutions have lasted a day, most mercifully three. My jinx just won’t let me be. As always, I feel a new year erasing the failures of the old and ushering in a new hope. Only it has never really lasted for long. A few short moments into a new year, 2019 will be different; I feel the familiar noose on the string of life slowly but surely tighten on my existence. I know with all measure of certainty that sooner than later it will snap on my neck, ebbing away my life to a place where only destiny lives. I have sighed that I’m mortal, bound to slide and fall and beseech beings beyond me to steady my hand every New Year believing that the always benign Big Brother is alive and watching over me. But Uncle Sam’s magnanimity has never been absolute. I pray to the supernatural for pity but know deep inside that salvation is a deliberate intervention by me, and that nature only reinforces it.
So I string resolutions, year after year, hoping that a new year will be different. I know my limitations only too well, but choose to hope believing that a day after the old year is finally over, a new set of rules to the universe will emerge. It has always been a mirage. I have failed before but should that not signal experience?
I have my share of them, only I keep most close to my heart. What I broadcast live and regret are those that I make on instinct and publicly, usually touching on my very pet subject of a lethal pass time I indulge in; a true and almost definite prediction of death, but one whose agents I buy with relish, systematically ingesting every hour and knowing that the consequences mean that I only breathe by grace, and one whose fate is as sure as a sunset.
So I look at 2018 and hope it passes on as fast as 2019 is approaching, and hope that some lucky star will smile on me. For if it does not, my family will continue nagging me on a self imposed compulsion for slow suicide, my Minister chastising me for the unforgivable destruction of the body of Christ, my car always needing an air freshener and cops on my neck for a publicly banned anathema. My clothes will always reek of an unwelcome stench; my bills skyrocketing because of the fan in the house. My skeletal frame will get even bonier, my hair receding faster, my skin grayer. The photographic memory bequeathed on me by generations will only show in my son and hopefully in the next few generations to come. For I know that my monster is not a generational respecter, but one which my take graver toll on my progeny.
Worse; my gentleman will be reluctant to stand up to the occasion, and when finally persuaded may only find it worthwhile to reward my efforts with a gaseous eject.
Only in low embarrassment tones do I speak of such humiliation, but reality will surely show when my spouse finally walks out on me in a less private demonstration.
I have refused to read or hear. 2019 is surely different. As I type, a ring of malevolent fumes on my face, I say again as I have thirty times before, that it will be a thing of the past. Tomorrow.
NICOTENE, 2019 IS MY NO SMOKE YEAR.