His eyes were the color of the sand and the sea

I have hated New Year's Eve, for like, ever. In many ways, its like Christmas. Christmas and New Year's are like freaky twins both with matching interesting skinillnesses. Christmas, like the greatest of the twins, is the subject of intense and toiling planning, analyzed and scrutinized and planned and mapped so much, expectations rising like blood to the head, churning and burning, and so, when the day finally arrives, everything is just, slightly... off. And it is never really as magical or mystical or beautiful as projected by your own mind or stupid TV shows.

And so you sit there, mopping up your broken dreams along with the firneedles from the tree you chopped down, illegally, because you waited too long to buy it(if your like my mother, that is).

People act like New Years Eve should be this culmination of the year, like that single arcane moment when everything comes together, all the moments in a whole year, every moment of laughter and joy and all that shit, coming together, materilizing like a multicolored mist, swallowing you like a cockhungry Asian freak.

Now wonder it always turns out to be boring and shitty.

Last New Years, I spent listening to Little Earthquakes at twelve, completely alone.
It was wonderful.

And then I wonder, and I do this all the time, is it reality that makes New Year's shitty, or is it the fact that I might have convinced myself it will be shitty. i don't know. But I'll try to make it cool. i'll try.

And New Years should be a time where not only the laughter and the joy meet together, but also the pain and the anguish and feeling like shit and hating and fretting and being thin skinned, like covered in eggshell, like naked and vulnerable. Because that is a part of life.

And the joy and the ardor and the pain meet, like silver and metal and gold.

And there is only the memories and who we once were.