This New Years, I’ll Be Making History

I’m sitting at a small kitchen table drinking coffee made in a pot without any filters. I have perfected my technique, and it is smooth and sweet. Although, I may have the sugar and cream to thank for that.

Another year has passed and I have been in an existential crisis for the past week — more so than usual, anyways.

‘Every day may be your last’, I think to myself, watching the hours slip lazily by.

I have chosen to spend these moments pursuing my hobby and life’s work of writing. I am writing for a client, I am writing for myself, and I am writing copy to increase the number of people who will continue to find and read my writing in the future.


Why do I love writing so?

Humanity has been writing memories and stories down for safe-keeping since the invention of recorded history.

You laugh, but it’s true.

Everyone is a writer. Not everyone is a good writer, and not everyone wishes for their writing to be read. But, we all write. We write to our journals, our diaries, our networks, our colleagues, our loved ones. We write to inform ourselves and each other of what has happened, what is currently happening, and what may happen in the future. We write to bring fantasies to life, to portray the worlds that exist in our minds, to express our emotions.

Our memories betray us as they fade and evolve into nostalgia and forgotten details. When we write these moments down, we capture them as if they were a photograph.

A photograph may capture that which cannot be spoken, but oh, what that photograph cannot tell you about the true workings of the subject’s mind and most secret thoughts. A photograph will display to you the perception of an idea, or perhaps the illusion of nudity; a written piece depicts true nakedness.

The words we write, even to our most private diaries, may one day display a perspective that no one else has understood before. In years to come, these writings may change the face of what stories are being told about the history of today.

And so, I love writing. I will immortalise my experience in this human form, trapped in self-awareness and utter disdain for existence, if for no one but myself when I am old and have forgotten who I used to be.

With every new year, I realise how much I have done, and in turn how much I have already forgotten.

In the end, my own history—what I have accomplished here, and who I have affected—is what I have to leave behind on this earth. So this year, I will continue to write my stories and make myself vulnerable for the sake of posterity and examination.

This year, I will make history.

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