The Point

I stagger to the conclusion of the year 2019 with a numbing case of MS brain fog along with a general sense of ennui. The foremost question in my mind seems to be "What is the point?" There is a thick doorstop of a book which sits long unmoved on the TV table to my left and it, too, asks "What is the point? Why would reading me matter? Why would bothering to lift me matter? What I might have to say, you would forget anyway." The book mark is tucked eternally at roughly the halfway point, somewhere between pages 400 and 450. Because what is the point? It is a good enough book, by one of my favorite authors, and yet what would finishing the book signify? There was a day when I felt I had to read as many books as possible as quickly as possible, in order to catch up somehow, to what I do not now know. What was the point, especially considering that I can no longer remember the things I read? It has all settled like dust, some of which clings indeed obscurely to corners, most of which has been swept away by an inappropriately efficient disease process. Well … I am thankful, at least, that I am feeling better now than I felt at the beginning of the year. It was a year which saw a long illness, beginning in February and extending to August--one thing after another, leaving me half the year bedridden for all practical purposes. It was a year that saw the death of my son, the loss of whom I mourn anew this Christmastime. It was a year that hosted the move from my cozy house in Renon to my cupboard-like apartment in Sanur. It was not a banner year, to put it mildly, and I am glad to be rid of it. And so I lift my cup (of decaf latte) to 2020--welcome to the world, baby.