D is for Dawning

'We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day' (Edith Lovejoy Pierce, Poet, 1904)

New Year's Eve has been and gone. Christmas has passed, taking with it the hype and childlike excitement that brews for the 24 days previous, leaving behind that inevitable, idealistic sense that only New Year can provide. As is typical, there are the normal cliches surrounding such time of year; resolutions, commitments to improbable ideas of physical, spiritual, and emotional renewal, ideas that, any other time of year, would be rejected due to their impossible qualities, and the severe lack of confidence that seems to exude from us, as a society. 

As each year has passed, I can't help but notice a certain notion surrounding that night of the 31st of December; an almost fairytale-like enthusiasm that would give Cinderella herself a run for her money. A hope surmounts that bolsters the large majority into believing that they are not, in fact, your every-day plain Jane or steady Stella who, whether intentionally or not, embodies their characters for the remaining 364 days of the year. Oh no, come the 31st December, for one night only, a new 'you' arises. And, for one night only, you seemingly give the best performance of your life. Until next year at least. 

And now this night has been and gone, leaving that dull ache of January blues, I can't help but wonder; what is it about us as a race that makes us so willing, so eager to change ourselves? With the pretence and excuse of the oh-so-stereotypical 'New Year, new start, new you' encompassing us, what is it that makes us so uncomfortable with just...being? I myself am an undeniable culprit of such ideas; since my initial comprehension and enlightening of the traditions of New Year, I have, without fail, dedicated myself to various ineffable challenges that, to be frank, I know I am never going to uphold. Oh, I guarantee that on this given night I will have every faith in myself; a kind of indestructible confidence that one night will be enough to change me as a person, to become the 'ideal' woman, to be the best person I can possibly be, to eat less sugar, to drink more green tea, to not cave in to the offer of a glass of wine. But yet...as always, January 1st follows, bringing with it the dawning of comprehension of just what you've committed yourself too. Rather like a bad hangover that, although rough for a time, will, inevitably, fade and be forgotten. 

More to the point...who am I to say this is wrong? Who am I to deny a population of just one day to truly, ultimately, and unquestionably believe in themselves? The idea of self-destruction...well, surely that's just one of those undefinable ideas that we have no choice but to label, rather like complaints, weather, and queues, as just part of being us. The complete British trait.