I can hear the sound of fireworks outside and it makes me sad.
Not because I don't like fireworks, but because I love them and I won't see any for the new year.
We want home before Midnight because H was too tired. I offered we stayed and I drove us home but he refused.
It's okay. He was very tired and would have felt awful if he had had to fight sleep for one more hour.
I don't get it, but it's okay. I don't have to get it. I just have to accept.
It just makes me sad that our celebrations were cut short. They had already been so upheavaled I was hoping we could salvage some of it. And we did! We had fun. And then we left. Before midnight.
I am trying not to be angry. Not to be sour. Not to let myself be too sad.
There will be other opportunities. Other fireworks. Other moments with friends and family.
Right?
Except there won't be another new year when I am 30. There won't be another new year 2022. There's only one. And missing it saddens me.
I like symbols. Important dates. Events. They help me make sense of the passing of time.
And missing any feels like I am failing at /time/. That I could be enjoying life to the fullest and I am not.
