This essay is part of the Protocol Narratives series
I’m going to bet that for most of you, 2023 hasn’t really started yet. January tends to be a month of nihilism lurking menacingly under a theater of meaning-making. You emerge from an inward-directed fortnight, devoted to personal reflection, family intimacy (welcome or not), and planning rituals, into a fresh-washed world that needs re-engaging.
And then… a stall.
With a sinking feeling, you admit to yourself that you cannot just cold-start a year after the holiday pause based on well-laid color-by-numbers plans. So many words to write, books to read, pounds to lose, miles to run, pounds to lift, promotions or jobs to get, prizes to win, Everests to climb…
Somewhere deep down you know this is no way to live. This is sound and fury signifying nothing. Without an emotional keynote to guide you, it is hard to know what part of that all-at-once complexity to attend to. Even the skeleton of a year in prospect, let alone one clothed in the flesh and blood of events and action, is overwhelming.
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