The Sunday Archives, Vol. 2, No.1
My greetings to you on this first Sunday of the New Year, my dear reader!
Were the celebrations grand, and did the display of fireworks meet your exacting standards? Did the final seconds of the New Year receive a courteous, royal wave, or did you perhaps deliver a less… elegant farewell?
But, most importantly, I must inquire: Did you pay attention to my last piece of guidance, or did you leave my council out in the snow, much like all those rockets that once lit up the sky?
The truth is that the inevitable turning of the year was a rather quiet, solitary event for yours truly, echoing the ’sublime‘ solitude of Christmas.
I found myself in the delightful company of the tiny tiger – also known as the ‚Head of State‘ -, with German television offering the annual Mr. Bean marathon as suitable background noise. Snacks were prepared, and sparklers purchased. A perfectly curated evening, given the current circumstances.
The actual stroke of midnight, I must confess, was a somewhat damp and chilly affair.
I ventured out into the royal courtyard – granted, other would call it the patio of my apartment -, lit my ceremonial sparklers with fingers that were growing icy already, watching the flashing canopy of fireworks, illuminating the sky.
I came to the conclusion that the previous year deserved only a single finger-salute of dismissal, and nothing more. A mental palate cleanser, if you will, before I turned my attention toward my goals of this fresh calendar cycle.
Once back within the royal walls, I saw myself raising a glass to the tiny tiger and, given the lack of company, to myself. If one expects a proper toast, one must often be prepared to deliver it oneself!
The evening then concluded precisely as it began: with the familiar comfort of the Mr. Bean marathon – a television spectacle I rather enjoyed.
I have also come to form my own opinion on the matter, which you can read in ‚THE LAUGHTER & THE VOID‚.
The Head of State, however, issued grave complaints about the ongoing noise conjured by the ‚firework-enthusiasts‘ – or, as others might simply call them, lunatics.
Her response was the immediate retreat in the most secure location: the ‚dungeons beneath the bed‘.
From there, I heard muffled protests of ‚beheading‘ and ‚punishment‘, delivered between the rug and, perhaps, the company of potential dust bunnies.
And there you have it, my dear reader. Between the fireworks and today, little has transpired.
With eyes firmly fixed on the future, I have granted myself a few days of mental and physical restoration before plunging back into the charade that is life. One must be properly rested for the performance!
Until next time.
The realm must be ruled.