Why the hell do we celebrate New Year's?
Every day falls on us like bricks: a little older, a little clumsier, a little more broken inside. Our skin loosens, our knees creak, our desire flickers out like a candle in the wind, and our heads can't even remember where we left our keys five minutes ago. Each new year doesn't bring renewal; it brings more weight, more aches and pains, more "I'm not the same person I used to be." And on January 1st, with a dry mouth and our livers begging for mercy, we put on the same shitty uniform, take the same bus packed with zombies, go back to the same job that's slowly killing us. Hell doesn't ask for vacations. Hell opens earlier after the holidays.
So, what's the point of the charade?
Why the 12 grapes swallowed against our will, the fireworks that cost more than we have, the "Happy New Year" said while staring into space? Because we need the drug.
A strong drink, a hug that lasts three seconds, a “this year everything will change” that allows us to get up off the ground once more without vomiting up the harsh reality.
The celebration doesn't celebrate anything that's coming.
It's a collective anesthetic to avoid looking the abyss in the face: that since old age existed, each year is worse. Objectively worse.
The body betrays us faster, opportunities close like traps, friends die or drift away, money buys less, sex becomes a memory, and the illusions we had left turn into cynicism or pills. Each trip around the sun is a step closer to the inevitable end, where there is no more “possible improvement,” only slow, painful, and irreversible degradation.
And yes, old age teaches.
It teaches through hard knocks. It teaches you that almost everything you chased was an illusion, that love doesn't last forever, that health is the only thing that truly matters and that you lost it without realizing it, that most people are expendable, and that you are too.
It teaches you that time isn't linear or fair: it runs faster when you no longer have anything to run it with.
But learning that way isn't pretty.
It's a lesson that breaks the bones of your soul, that leaves scars that aren't visible but that hurt every morning when you open your eyes.
That's why we toast.
Not to real hope.
We toast to the ability to keep swallowing the lie for another year.
Because without that collective lie—without that "maybe this year will be different"—many of us would have given up a long time ago. We would have stopped getting up, stopped faking smiles, stopped putting one foot in front of the other.
So raise your glass, if you still have the strength. Cheers to the illusion that keeps us alive a little longer.
Cheers to the comforting delusion that allows us to continue in this hell without staring too intently into the abyss.
Happy New Year.
Or what's left of it.
Keep walking.
The clock doesn't stop for anyone.