Twelve Strikes of Midnight; the modern fairytale.

The clock strikes midnight and the world explodes in a show of flashing lights and incredible noise.

Happy New Year.

Fireworks dress the night early morning sky in spectacular blooms and ribbons of exploding colors. All the human mind perceives is the light burned across their vision, and not the smokescreen in the background. All we can think about is how beautiful it is to be standing here, on top of the world, gazing out at a heaven that celebrates another year of human existence. We don't think about how we've basically traded off our hard-earned money for a compound of ammonium perchlorate, sulfur, and potassium nitrate. And, surprise! we're more than happy to blow it up to pieces. The result is a thunderous clap of sound, plumes of smoke--transparent against the dark sky, and a shower of sparkling lights; inspiring a brief moment of kaleidoscopic joy.

We only think about how marvelous it is; this parade of lights. We don't think about how poor confused birds drop dead out of the sky and lose their way in this hellish forest of light exploding from inside the dangerous smog. We don't think about how their little hearts stutter and stop at the sound of explosions. We don't think about the widening malicious grin in the ozone layer or the smoke slowly settling on our clothes and hair, nesting in our lungs. That's for later; worries and horrors for the morning of January the first.

It's the second strike of midnight. Everyone is sharing a few last toasts of well-wishing for the new year, and a last batch of hugs goes around the room. A few people failed to make it to midnight, and are seated on the sofa and chairs with sticky eyes and slow, sleepy smiles. Just one more, everybody says. I can't, I really can't stay. I have to be up in the morning. Really, everybody else says. The spell strains, cracks.

With each consecutive strike of the clock that follows, people walk languidly out the door and climb into their cars. There is the muted revving of engines as they move away, to the sound of the last few fireworks still lighting the sky. Everywhere there is still the overbearing sight of Happy New Year set in bright decorative neon lights. Gold and metallic-paper trumpets bleat tiredly a few final times. The sound pierces the fog that settles. The only thing is; that's not fog. But at the moment it adds a dreamlike quality to the night, and we wave it away. We will complain of the smell of smoke in the morning.

Ha py New Yea .

The twelfth strike of midnight,and the New Year has already overstayed its welcome. In people's minds is the thought of going back to normal, routine life, and the horrors of this new and alien year. My brain takes a few brief seconds to remind me about an unfinished essay and the last few days I have remaining before I go back to school, and my enthusiasm takes a nosedive.

It is the twelfth strike of midnight and the spell has been broken.

White stallions revert to simple white mice and the carriage is a deflated orange pumpkin in the middle of the road. Cinderella has to run into the forest and hide. Has to go back to the dreaded stepmother's house.

She can always still hope, of course. We can remember the promise of good health and dreams to be achieved in this newly-begun future. We can hold to the hope, and the dream, and pray that in the future the glass shoes will fit again. There will be an occasion to dance to again, even it's only the promise of yet another year.








Happy New Year.