this most precious

We're only a few short weeks from the end of the decade.
Time is a construct and yet somehow it matters.
Doesn't it? Does it?
If I have assigned the construct meaning, then I suppose it does.
All this to say, I have reflected and felt some deep feelings about the ending of this decade.
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I regained my freedom in so many ways, in this decade.
Became me again.
Became a new me.
I published stories and met new people and shed poisonous people.
I saw distant parts of the planet I never thought I'd see.
I was lonely and I made bad decisions and I scraped the bottom of my soul to create fiction and write about my childhood and say some true things.
I took a new job and a new 1/2 job and quit the new 1/2 job.
I learned things and forgot things.
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I sang, "I love myself" in a Ballard brewery and smiled, knowing all the while it was untrue.
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Meanwhile the world burns and sociopaths and billionaires are unashamed.
What does it all mean?
Meaning is also a construct, and the idea that my life has meaning or that existence has meaning -- well it's all a bit much for 12.43pm on a Saturday afternoon.
What means something today is friendship and a good night's rest and a completed crossword puzzle.
Dog boops and boo cuddles and laying on my couch with a good book.
What also means something is continuing to fight and giving money to the ACLU and standing on overpasses with signs.
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I don't have a cute or meaningful ending and probably, neither does life.