The New Year dawns.
Before the calls of the other chores, I sit down with my smartphone in hand. An application is opened to send wishes of the New Year to people I have recently known. One by one, a delicate text is typed, names written with mindfulness, and sent without the hope of a returned statement. Between some names, the mind calculates of the recentness of communication, any last grievances with the name holder, hurts of the pasts and their intensities, any common jokes, but importantly, how beneficial they will be in the days to come. A text is sent sometimes. Sometimes, I refrain.
Other chores take precedence after.
I finish reading Dear Life by Alice Munro. Dear Life. I have come to admire the significance of the title – a book which came into my life through friendship with a stranger. The book is a collection of short-stories. Some fictional, some inspired by the emotions and realities borne by the author herself.
The last four pieces are from her – factually variant but truth held in the right essence in each of them. It is here where I slow down, each line taken in their profundity and broken apart to relive what could be relived. I imagine writing like her. I imagine living in Canada. Canada will be good, I am convinced. Something tells me Canada will be good.
I have to get back to work. Read about writing. Learn about the peripheries of an art to learn the art itself. So, I will read before I will learn to write.
A New Year is borne. Let us hope to try more if not much else.