That's a cute pawprint photo; seems Pūciņa is dabbling in the arts as well. I do have some snow lately, so that's cool.

I'm not usually a fan of the personification of years and the arbitrary drawing of lines in time. Some songs which were made in the 70s and 90s have the "80s sound" because ten years is a ridiculously arbitrary span of time to measure. The Earth rotates at a speed such that it completes roughly three hundred and sixty-five Earth rotations for every trip around the Sun. We evolved to have ten fingers, so let's count one finger for every orbit, except let's count the rotations instead because that's easier for us, and just make up a couple of imaginary days in the meantime, to sort of sync everything up. So, it's settled then. The entire look and feel of human culture will be redefined, like clockwork, every three thousand, six hundred fifty-two days. Or so. Seems legit.

I think I remember 2016 being one of those years everyone decided to celebrate hating because famous people kept dying. "Oh, who will 2016 take next," and I would just roll my eyes. It's just a year; an arbitrary measure of time. Nothing more to it than that.

But then the coronavirus arrived, and began its reign of terror on the world. I found myself accidentally, subconsciously, counting the months. The culture around me was not helping, as the internet filled once more with impassioned cries of, "Fuck [the current year]!"

Finally, it happened; I looked at the calendar and I realised... it had been over one year since I felt a loving embrace. Logic be damned, my human brain had drawn the pattern and it didn't matter how arbitrary it was, it hurt. And so, I had the dark epiphany that dragged me up out of my self-diagnosed enlightenment into the real world of the real human condition with regard to numerical pattern-matching as applied to temporal measurements, and I understood, and I embraced my fate, and I boarded the bandwagon. "Fuck 2020" indeed.

And so it was, that, despite knowing exactly how ridiculous it was, I, too, counted down to my particular locally-designated timestamp which defined the "New Year," beer in hand, feeling just about as dumb as was appropriate.

How not to be a plastic bag in the wind allowing every single disturbance to carry you in all directions. It probably doesn't make any sense to you.

It makes all of the sense, and none of it, at the same time. I'm afraid I identify deeply with the plastic bag. Your detachment and focus is a gift beyond my understanding. Cherish it.