It's that time of the year, again.

The calendar is probably one thing you should never look at if the age-old adage ‘Time and tide wait for none’ fills your stomach with a viral guilt. Didn’t we just step into this year, like, a few days ago ?? Hmm..a few three hundred days ago, I guess. On an unenthusiastic personal point, this time of the year can get extensively antisocial with my psyche – speaking out of several exemplified instances of alarming personal examples.

My brain just retards and goes on maybe a long drive to live with the sea turtles where it doesn’t return from until probably Christmas, when there’s better scope for emotionally engaging activities like eating more slices of cake than any other time of the year. I run away from my cell phone. My reading interests practically die. I live on hot chocolates until they make me sick and watch more movies than ever, from under the blanket. I wear mournfully old, pathetic shoes that have dingy, dangling stuff (who even makes them anymore?!). My writing however bounces back in a renewed psychological spirit which utterly frightens me. (You see? Another exemplified instance of alarming personal example).


I think I should be more interested in deeper introspections under such times but what basically happens, I guess, is that I simply hibernate.

So, it’s that time of the year. Again. And no matter how much I listen to Greenday or Hoobastank, it’s still gonna be a lousy winter. At the end of the year though, I am gonna bounce back with a terrific contradiction of what a beauty it is to end the year with a snowy christmas.