It's been a hard year.
But "the year is ending". Finally. I guess all terrible things come to an end too.
Why blame the year? Time is an arbitrary thing we thought up. The utter misery of existing as creatures of habit with little control over what becomes of us is much less so. It's like a fever dream. So many horrors, so little time.
Some days are harder than others. It's more difficult to carry on pretending like there isn't a giant, unresolved boulder of ugly emotion sitting at the base of my throat. In the meanwhile, time continues its dogged, relentless march.
Does nobody ever fucking tire of keeping on?