It would be an understatement to say that 2016 was a bad year. I fumble around and probe into the sentiments of other people to find the same grave opinion they have towards this monstrous moment in time.
A year that witnessed the ugliest turn of events for politics; a year that took away the lives of some of my most admired writers (Harper Lee, Elie Wiesel, Umberto Eco) as well as those of famous celebrities and musicians. And on top of that reek the deaths of many other nameless people whose lives are lost and wasted in the unending parade of war and violence. Alongside human deaths lie the uncalled-for ruin of other life forms on the planet as evident in the painful disintegration of The Great Barrier Reef.
A year that announced the shrouded decay of both man and nature, the world slowly crept like a mad vermin into this dark and dingy limbo, a paradise of human error and technological sin where the gates are washed out by the blood that says “Welcome to the Anthropocene.”
I used to write my year-end posts with a certain brand of nostalgia for my life; a certain kind of remembrance for what an entire year I’ve been through and for how well I’ve performed my role as a sentimental sack of emotions disguised as a human. But tonight, as I try to throw myself back to the start of 2016 and to slowly extract myself from the difficult months that followed thereafter, I can only see a blurred reflection of myself, almost erased, and see instead a magnified version of the world and its meaninglessness.
I tell myself, what value do I gain from subjecting my memories to scrutiny, or from rewarding myself the glory of the new year by burning away the reputation of the past? I look at the people around me, unable to understand the wild jubilation of their many a fetes, and mumble to myself what kind of madness it must be to throw one’s life away to the indifferent force of Time, convinced to myself that one shall never be happy in life if one continues to subscribe to a linear concept of time. But soon enough I catch myself rejecting the idea and reminding my senses how futile it is to resist what is.
So this was what my year has been: a deranged sequence of thesis and antithesis that spun themselves into a lonely downward spiral that never reached a new postulate. But the good thing is, I have become too familiar with my ideas and my memories, that I could almost substitute one for the other until everything becomes indecipherable, and finally regard each of them as truth—the way I fool myself that he never left or that she never carried out that action, and that I was never hurt—until I was never there at all anymore.
It’s metaphysical how I survived this year, this suicide, and that I shall carry on to a brand new illusion with only a scar on my left wrist, a possible intoxication, and a constant reassurance that next day, next month, next year, everything will repeat itself once more, and the dreams will continue to haunt you and make you mourn like a widow, and the voices will lull you to your nightmares still, and the memories will whip you as in a self-flagellation until you can no longer bleed, and the letters will arrange themselves into a narrative where the author is a modified fiction and her words are all lies.
And in the midst of this madness, you will be reminded of what you once were: light as a summer’s day, and what you are now: an ancient broken figurine, and the difference will no longer strike you and mean a single thing because you are already dancing and laughing in a different language, and wishing your heart a happy return.
I am leaving everyone in 2016.