2015, and I’m not alone in being minus a hoverboard. It’s quite clear that disappointment is edging the horizon, eager to shuffle in and take its place at camp. Not that we need let it.
Let two-thousand-and-fifteen be the year where the connections in your mind burn brightly. Don the mantle, the headdress, the mask and costume, and let the superpowers of creativity shine bad and brilliant.
“It’s all real. Think about it. Haven’t Luke Skywalker and Santa Claus affected your lives more than most real people in this room? I mean, whether Jesus is real or not, he – he’s had a bigger impact on the world than any of us have. And the same can be said for Bugs Bunny and – and Superman and Harry Potter. They’ve changed my life – changed the way I act on the earth. Doesn’t that make them kind of real? They might be imaginary but, but they’re more important than most of us here. And they’re all gonna be around here long after we’re dead. So, in a way, those things are more realer than any of us. ” – Kyle Broflovski
So. Let 2015 be full, let it be pregnant with new things – and I don’t mean a new haircut or a new toothbrush, but NEW new things. Discovery can be infinite. Sure, we live in age where pretty much every piece of land has been discovered and explored already; colonised, stamped, taxed and signposted. But you can provide the new lands, the new maps, new people and places for others to explore, as well as yourself. Exploration is ongoing – but internally.
When you make things up, they exist. In a different way to how you and I might exist, perhaps (although I’m not quite sure that you even exist… or myself), but nonetheless.
Let 2015 be filled to bursting. Then make more room, then fill it again.
Let 2015 be packed with witchery, with angels and demons, with redtops and black krull, with superstitious northern wulven, with daggered sea-knights and diseased limpers, with Eastern meddlers sailing their sky caravans, with spectral raggers crowned with opal and bone; a year of endless drowning nights and waves that stamp like men, with slithering ten-eyed ricksnakes that burrow through the sandswamps of Jingarl and curl around the footsteps of cognisants and dread myths alike; a year of gun-spinning legends with great black beards and steel-tipped fingers, of noseless mystics worshipping a pissant moon, of moving biological dungeons where the walls squirm and pulsate, where rites are sung and phosphorescent balloons like fat glowing sacks hang sickly off chains, where scaled, translucent gorbecks are savaged daily by their carnivorous masters, and all is beautiful and terrible and wild.
2015, bring on the endless, the unknowable, the desperate specks of excitement, the wet jungles and the dipping cloud castles, and the knives and teeth glinting in the trees… and may every monster alive flock to me and you.
And defend us.
“Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.” ― G.K. Chesterton