What is it about turning one year older that transforms us into giant piles of mush every year? We turn the page on that three hundred and sixty fifth day and it’s almost inevitable we’re reminded of the fickle nature that characterizes our short-lived existence. I watched a video a couple months back that took it upon itself to break down the timeline of the universe, explaining vaguely that humans and our overly-glorified presence, can only naturally exist for an extremely limited period of time. The clip goes on to explain that, “as a fraction of the lifespan of the universe –as measured from it’s beginning to the evaporation of the last black hole– life as we know it is only possible for one thousandth of a billionth billionth billionth billionth billionth billionth billionth billionth billionth (.000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 1%)." Simply put, the cosmic accidents that birthed the very possibility of life are not stagnant incidents but rather ongoing events that will continue to carry along on their way. This isn't to say that other catalysts like Global Climate Change won't fail to further shorten our already minuscule lifespan, but instead adds a calm almost soothing reassurance about the overarching ending of things. What we’ve always known to be true, is once again reasserted: that just as we’ve all seen our very first day on earth, it is inescapable we should see our last. 
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It should come as no surprise then, that in honor of my latest planetary lap around the sun, I’ve chosen to write about these same lingering thoughts that surface in such occasions. Setting the tricky timeline of our cosmic existence aside for just a second, I’m feeling strangely connected to that increasingly popular sentiment of apathy towards the more trivial things in life that come with age. I’ve heard from many a beloved New Yorker here that stepping into their thirties was like stepping into their twenties but without all the useless self-consciousness they once carried around. For years I wondered if this was less of a genuine sentiment and more of a unified surrender –the kind you embrace upon realizing there’s no other way forward– but strangely enough, I think I actually get it. Though of course I’m still a ways to thirty, I can’t help but resonate with the idea that you might age and discover that most of the things we’re plagued by are self-inflicted and unimportant. No, I’m not exempting toxic vehicles like mass media from creating the very torments that haunt society, but rather suggesting the power to limit their impact may very well be strictly confined within us. It’s things like body positivity for some, and full freedom of creative expression for others (hello) that bloom inadvertently and make for some of the richest discourse we can hope to surround ourselves with. 

So what the hell does it all mean? 
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At least for me, it’s set a different tone for the incoming year. That our existence is short and life is meant to be felt I’ve known for some time now –but, that I can carry forward with a little less care for the all-seeing eye of society at large, I’m just now discovering. I think for someone like me, growing up to become the hallmark of success always felt less like an option, and more of a necessity. Being born to the likes of a people and culture with little knowledge and even less regard for the life and protection of queer love, I've always felt it was my place to step up and demonstrate what gay excellence looked like. If I could become the picture of perfection –with high-achieving grades, awards, accolades and recognition, a strong career or profession, a tall salary and a vibrant social life– maybe I could prove that our people were worthy of taking space just as well.  
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Yet painful as it might feel to admit, that there is a cup with no fill. What could possibly encapsulate the hallmark of success and or perfection in a ubiquitous way?
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Though one could argue accrued wealth has remained a universal metric for success, you can hardly expect that everyone’s perception of affluence and riches will be of monetary origin. For some, knowledge is the most valuable acquisition to be made, while others consider things like health and well-being to be of most precious value. If you want to get existential again, time becomes the most treasured currency a man can spend, but what good is all the time in the world if one must spend it alone? Is company and proximity of loved ones the truest wealth to be sought then? What about pleasure? What good is company and proximity if it cannot be relished or fully felt? Could our favorite Friends failed actor who never got his break but enjoyed the greatest sex in New York City be called successful? What did success mean to him? What does it mean to you? Hell, what does it mean to me?

Thus lies a veil only we can pull apart. And lo and behold, a revelation appears: the answer looks different for everyone. (No please, applause at the end). I guess it’s no surprise we each part with a different takeaway – what one man considers a loss could easily be the greatest triumph in the eyes of another. Nearly three years of silence later, I’m convinced the same fears that once kept my words confined to the corners of an offline website confirm we are both and simultaneously experts and idiots. We are both enough and insufficient. It will always just depend on who we ask. 
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Unfortunately, we live in a world where your answer alone will not suffice fulfillment or recognition. Your metrics in isolation are worth little to anyone else. And sometimes that’ll be a good thing. Sometimes the world will ask you push harder, run faster, or jump a little higher to achieve that communal recognition. But as I am learning to do the same, we have to remember to ask ourselves too. Because at the end of the day, that’s the one metric we all answer to. Wether or not we seem happy or successful, how we actually feel will always come down to our unique definition of each. Sure enough, a high-paying job, vibrant social network or even a consistent stream of awards and accolades might very well be on that list for you, but rather than challenge you question the list, my hope is we’ll question the reasons why. In my case, I do believe some happiness and fulfillment is drawn from the obstacles and rewards that comprise the professional working world; It’s fun, and I’ve been very blessed to secure competitive compensation, but it also isn’t everything. There is so much more that I want to see, and do, and achieve. And whatever those metrics I define for myself, I will challenge to meet and some day even exceed.

I’ve come to learn that much of what I’ve achieved has been fueled by this strive for queer excellence and in an equally toxic way, much of what I haven’t dared to attempt, has been tied to the very same. 
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That ends today. 

If the over-hyped and completely misunderstood notion of intention-setting was ever good for anything, let it now be for the abandonment of this restraint as it pertains to that which I’ve considered to be in misalignment with the (non-existent) concept of perfection. That which I have both already accomplished and will simultaneously never achieve. Because only we can only decide for ourselves. Moving forward, I should be foolish to believe that fear should fade away like a bad dream you wake up from in the middle of the night, but rather will work to ensure it is no longer an obstacle I continue to indulge. Because if we’re really only going to be around for a blink’s worth of some insane fraction that almost broke my site, what the hell does it all matter? We might as well get a little messy along the way.
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Here’s to giving a few less shits this year. Here’s to 26. 

Until next time my friends,