While every month of the year has a character of its own — January tends to be hopeful, March usually seems endless, August is kind of an asshole — all of them remain malleable to man.  We can bring our own attitude to each one-twelfth of the year and make of it what we wish.  I’ve bent July into the most melancholic month and forced October to be one of romance.  All the year long, we’re masters of  our fates drawing maps on the pages of our calendars.  All the year long, that is, until December.

    There are parties to attend and sweaters to wear.  Family to visit and snacks to consume.  Miles to go and promises to keep.  Twelve of twelve doesn’t care what you have in mind or where you’re at in your life, it has plans and will accept nothing less than your total compliance. 

    Whatever your religion, you have shopping to do, whatever your media of choice: music, movies, books, TV, you have year-end lists to consult, whatever your age, you have resolutions to make, and whatever you’ve done with the rest of your year, you have moments to cherish and mistakes to regret.

    No matter what path you carved through the bedrock of the previous three-hundred-and-thirty-four days, so long as you survived, December marks the end of your journey.  It is the month of reckoning and we are all at its mercy.

1:52 pm  •  20 December 2011  •  2 notes