At the stroke of midnight, the moon stood guard, lighting up the precious first seconds of the first day of the new year 2018. Mmh..the night has its own special appeal even in its black and grey hues.
It looked like any other night, any other new day. But it seems we attach a lot of importance to the first anything. Did anyone record the last minute of the last year? Does “finishing” not matter as much as “starting” does? Is that why we start so many things and leave them incomplete, excitedly running into the next “new”? Supposing there was only the first day and then we counted on and on, no cycles? Would we treasure our days more, knowing there would never be another cycle? Cycles make us believe that there’s a next time. Is there ever really a next time. Would we appreciate this time if we believed there would never be another like it?