Letter to 2021

 

Dear 2021: as I sit on the edge of the cliff that every December becomes, I look forward. Towards the open ocean of opportunities that you may bring. Towards the warm hug of your sunrise peeking from the horizon. I look forward and I get to smile a bit.

The year expected by the world, you are. The year yearned by the people. The beloved before it’s arrival. The year messiah. The great come-back. The golden age of the future to be defined. Dear 2021, what a humongous amount of pressure laying over your unborn shoulders.

And you know what? I hope you won’t worry about who everybody wants you to be. I really hope you won’t. Forget about the expectations and the endless wishlist of already scripted days that have been put upon you. Be whoever you want to be, I will love you just the same.

Because 2020 was not the year that I was hoping for, but still managed to bring me beauty. A year of unknown fear and static days and fast pacing seasons. A year when I missed a plane to Spain because it made no sense to fly. A year in which I didn’t get to see my family, at all. A year when my sister blew her birthday candles alone, locked inside her room, because she had gotten corona working endless nights at the emergency department. A year when we supported each other in videoconference and it was real. A year of empty theatres and postponed concerts. A year of isolation. A year in which I got a loan, and an old marvelous apartment to brighten up and call it a home. The year when we escaped to the mountains of Norway and slept under the stars that did not know about the lockdown cities everywhere else in the world. The year of dreaming about more travels. A year in which my company fired people. The year of Copenhagen’s golden summer. A year of the books in my lap and writing back on the menu. A year of monthly goals and personal growth. A year when the time shared with friends was something to treasure and not take for granted. A year of caring for each other. A year of challenges. A year of art, surviving. A year of us, surviving too. Lucky us. Looking forward, and getting to smile a bit.

Yours,

Carlos