The soft week

On seeing the old year out

From left: Helen Lundeberg, Untitled (Water Map), 1963, Jean Paul Lemieux, Jeune fille, l'hiver, 1977, Itsuko Azuma, Gateway to the Stars, text from the poem Sky by Wisława Szymborska

In this soft week, the last of December, the days feel quiet—a weird tranquility has descended. Committed to rest, I’ve gravitated towards basking in a certain atmosphere that can only be conjured during this time of year, the cusp. I always seem to forget how much I enjoy this time, the unhurried days, universal permission to do nothing—to do everything—if you want.

The rules and hours are bent, they have deep pockets and secret corridors. I find myself burrowing into these magical angles, wanting to embrace the feeling this week possessed when I was twelve, before the omnipresence of internet and constant communication; it’s luxurious almost, this feeling of being hidden away, of making oneself unreachable.