Some Thoughts Near The End Of The Year

As the year comes to a close, as one's eyes begin to close, one thinks to one's self (or is it oneself?) (it would sound better as "one's self," but oneself is a perfectly fine adjective & perhaps even preferable) (a matter of opinion, certainly), "My, what a year it has been, & perhaps, since I am already sitting here with a snifter of something & a well-oiled suit, I may spend a moment or thus opining & surmising, with one hand on my stumbling memories, & another in the cookie jar."

For example, one might recall that the year started, as most years do, in early January, & no one had any idea that there might be relocation in the air.  Relocation!  The movement of one life in one place to a not dissimilar life in another, stranger place!  Boxes must be packed, books must be sold, furniture of questionable taste must be placed on the curb for the strange men in the beat-up pick-ups to take when no one is looking!  Relocation has not written on the inches & inches of snow that covered three whole months of this year.  But the word was uttered!  The decision was made!  Then it was unmade!  & yes, then came the rue.  The bitter, bitter rue.

Must one always look back upon the year with rue?  What happened to the nepenthe of youth that served as the antidote for rue?  Must rue accrue as the years pile up behind one?  & why is it so enjoyable to say the word "rue."  One sometimes wishes one had children, about whose mental & social conditions one didn't care, such that one could name them fun words like "rue."  Please, one might say, let me introduce you to my children.  This is Rue.  This is her sister, Woe.  This is Little Ruin, & of course you know our eldest, Scourge.

Ew.  It suddenly appears that one is writing some kind of rip-off of a Neil Gaiman story.  One should quit while one is quite far behind.  In fact, one should forego writing until one can more comfortably employ pronouns in a much more readable manner that that heretofore displayed.

But wait!  One has some pseudo-poetic lines that one has not yet incorporated.  For example, this was written on a scrap of paper stored under a salt & pepper shaker: "Can one truly have thoughts for such a thoughtless year?"  Isn't that a fabulous line?  Isn't that worth having to slog through all the turgid prose thus far exercised in these purple paragraphs?

No?  Well, shoot.  One kind of feels like 2015 was exactly like that.