Another year disappears behind me, unnoticed, unceremonious.
Once again, my family and I trace our hopes and dreams onto paper, as if naming them might keep them from slipping away.

This year, I offer less.
No plans. No striving.
Only being—and the fragile hope that it will be enough.

Time is a human illusion, a construct we cling to in order to survive the passage of time. We measure it, dissect it, demand meaning from it, even as it carries us forward through this valley of tears, indifferent to our questions.

With age, life tightens its grip. The moments grow smaller, heavier. The future no longer calls—it recedes, pale and unconvincing. What remains is a quiet obligation: to be decent to myself, to others, while there is still breath to do so.

That, too, may pass. But for now, it holds.

So, to the new year, I make no promises.
Come what may.
I will remain. I will witness. And I will accept whatever time allows me.