Getting to the end of the year always seems a bit of a struggle.
There may be warm delights and holiday cheer, but there’s also ever shortening days. Ever increasing darkness.
Faded, dreary skies.
It’s like the world holds its breath, just waiting for the end.
Waiting for a few moments of peace and silence.
Come January, folks will have their energy back. They’ll feel rested, refreshed, and ready to tackle life’s challenges.
But right now, we’re all just slouching along, desperate to put down our load.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
I’ve had too much processed sugar
Yeats could have written.
Indeed, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, with toys, and books, and more holiday parties than I can count.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
If I could think clearly it would be at hand
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Would not be enough to give me rest
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards the new year to be reborn?