A New Year

Some think the change of the year to be of little importance. It is symbol only, say they; symbol without import, given meaning only by the foolish and baseless mass assumption of the crowds. We might as well celebrate on the fifth of January, or the tenth, or the twenty-first of July, they say: it would all be the same.

Others disagree. For them, the new year is a time of rebirth, and change - when all sins are forgiven, for a time, and repentance can be found. All the world is remade at the turn of every year, and anything is possible - or so they think.

The new year, as one might suspect, is what one makes of it. If one so desires, one can sleep through the year's end, the year's beginning, and never know it was. Or one can choose change; can seize the symbol, and turn it to one's own uses.

One did. He chose to remake himself; to reclaim responsibilities too long abandoned. His mentor questioned him. "Do you know what you do?" she asked.

"I am taking this action of my own will," he replied firmly. "I am no puppet, no mouthpiece of the masses. My words, and my choices, are my own."

"Why do you do this now?" she asked.

"Because I can," he answered.

There was a pause.

"And what will you make of yourself?" she asked. "Will you discard all that you were, to make yourself anew?"

He touched her on the shoulder, lightly. "No. What I am, what I... share with others... this is too precious to me to discard. Even now. I will refine, process, purify myself. The dross shall be cleansed, and I will remake myself as I was, with all the best of what I am now augmenting. Only the ill shall be lost; what was good and right shall be regained. With passion, I will remake my strength; with strength new and old, I will gain victory. This is my choice."

"Then so it shall be," she answered quietly. "It is good that you have chosen, at last. I will return in one month's time, to see you freed from your chains."

She left. The door locked behind her. And in the darkness, only he was left.

Author's Note: Partially autobiographical, partially inspired by eight hours of this. There may be more of the latter shortly; I found it rather powerful, probably because I'm insane.