You know what else has two edges? A fucking knife, pal.
You know, somebody always has to play killer, and somebody else victim.
I'm amused (and oft confused) when I see both archetypes wrestling for first blood right in the face of the person in front of me. Oh, it's the time for reflection, all right, it's that time of year where the numbers change, and where one can ignore the changing of day to next day, when the year turns, most heads do too. Now they've got a fancy ritual for all this head turning, all that back-and-forth: they call it resolution.
The act of resolution itself is psychotic; if a man stood in front of you with purple velvet and a crystal ball, blew some machine smoke into your face, and said through a voice filter Look Upon What Ere May Be, you'd plant a solid toe in his testicles; too thoroughly postmodern to assume your life was that small a stream, that it had one direction to go, and that was down. Even if the man could describe it in a warbly, half-fearful-half-hilarious voice. The act of resolution is psychosis; one believes in a world so limited, so defined; in their own character, so limited, so defined that one single element can be changed for a man to call his journey upward; as the death sentence of progress smiles. It renders a man all the complexity of the internal combustion engine, and if so, one ought to commit their life and ethics to regular periodic maintenance. No wonder we die in disgrace, like forlorn rustbuckets with bird's nests under the hood, and pissed-in upholstery, being dragged off to the crusher.
Of course, I have no solution to the resolution. Folks like to solve the problems of themselves one question, one line item at a time. but it gets me to thinking about sticking the fishhook down some resolution's throat, to get it caught in the tender rectum of that fantasy, to turn that bastard inside-out. I bet I find another wonderful psychotic state of thought, something that visits in January (and probably every holiday) and isn't forgotten by the end of the month.
If the whiplash from forward motion is the act of resolution's hope; the backwards jerk, the noose that snaps you into yesterday would be regret. Now everybody knows a soul with this story: I have no regrets. And there are as many folks who secretly aspire to such horrible perfection as there are naysayers who simply disbelieve such a claim. In today's prisons of apathy, I see as many innocents as I do stone-cold stranglers.
So what if regret is sheer lunacy? Perhaps I shouldn't discount its educational aspects, but that's like not discounting the educational aspects of growing callouses on the bottom of your feet for firewalking. There's better ways to challenge the gods, I might say. You might spend enough time thinking of that wrong decision, of a life of wrong decisions to find you're made of the meat of both sins of resolution and regret. You have become what you've eaten. Simply stated: Who wants to be wrong? Worse: who wants to fucking admit it? No way, brother, give me the handy lie, give me delusion like single-serving medication on a schedule, give me a million parallel universes with a million possibilities, a million universes that don't give a good goddamn about me, just so I can escape this one for a bit, and a million other mes can escape theirs. Perhaps the whole world's full of beautiful, dangerous, mountain-climbing poetry-writing dope-doing kid-killing wrong and being right is the comfortable yet unattainable psychosis they've got folks chasing after.
Then again, rituals weren't always noted for their sanity.