As I sit snugly toward the back of my favourite, local cafe and look out to see an increased number of layers that each individual has to remove before sitting down; I am reminded that the year is eminently drawing to a close. Then again, I must also confess that I have allowed for my favourite jazz album by Helen Merrill, that’s been seductively whispering through my headphones for the last half an hour or so, to soothe me into a more reflective state.
See, my past year has been like no other. It has been a year that, in its entirety, could be seen: as a dark, complex cocktail. The kind you would not have pictured yourself ever ordering, but due to the nature of evolving circumstance, you do so.
It arrives. Served cold. Almost numbing to the touch. You look at what’s been placed in front of you, and question your decision. You look around to see the smile of others at the bar, content with their servings, quickly transitioning into a pleasant and familiar conversation. Yet you are still struck by your apparent choice. Grasping it tightly out of fear, you bring the drink close to your lips. The smell gives up very few clues of what’s to come. Your acceptance of this comes not from some clearly defined positive force, but rather of the necessity to move forward. Here we go, I guess!
