The blinds clatter loudly in protest; or are they laughing, clapping in celebration? Perhaps just the flight of fond memories rushing past and dissipating in the clear blue sky.
I pick up the last of my belongings, and close the door.

A lone violin, holding a quivering note in the darkness. A rising tide of long drawn-out cello chords. Soft flourishes of the harp, followed by the slow and deliberate pounding of the timpani. And then the shriek of twenty violins, vibrato-ing in unison. 'This is the tale of a princess and the Sultan, and the 1001 stories she must tell to save her life', the conductor had informed us earlier, and now I imagined a dashing young man in a purple turban, running across rooftops whilst being pursued by large moustached men brandishing curved swords. Aforementioned young man is, as always, rescuing a beautiful princess from the clutches of a wicked stepmother, liberating the peasants from the evil sorceror's rule and locating some secret orb of power to save the world, etcetera etcetera. This is how I spent the night of the fourteenth, huddled and shivering under umbrellas with two fine young ladies, sitting on plastic bags and listening to a free orchestral concert as the rain fell unceasingly. So the day turned out okay, after all.

Hmm, my hair seems a little thinner on the left side of my head. I'm slightly worried - is this the first sign of ageing, at 26.01 years of age? I did have a haircut today, so I'll lay the blame there.

With the concert cut short by the bad weather, we headed over to Newtown for cakes and drinks, and then afterwards some karaoke with the others. As the music played the hour and minute hands raced towards each other, until finally they met and tolled the arrival of the new day. I felt nothing of course, grateful though I was for my friends and the awful rendition of Happy Birthday they were belting out. No, no new line on my face or any revelatory moments, nor even the determination to do things differently this year. Only that tired resignation, tinged with a dash of disappointment, that comes when one is old enough to separate reality from fiction.

Ahh, the rain's started again. I hear it gurgling down gutters, dripping down balconies and slapping on concrete. I feel unfocused and diffused, like what happens when a large magnet is placed against a TV. They say it'll rain for all of next week and the week after that, too. Where does all this rain come from? I wonder what the weather was like when I entered the world; did I come into sunlight, or were ominous black clouds gathered overhead?
I feel another tumultuous year coming.

Shallow laboured breathing. The creased forehead, that look of puzzlement. Round staring eyes, smooth ebony marbles fixed in their sockets. So tired, so tired.
'Another day is coming,' he mumbles faintly.
'Yes. Doesn't time fly,' I reply gently.
'Preparing to leave,' he mutters ever so softly. '...preparing to leave...'
I'm left speechless - what can one say in the face of such inevitability? In some ways I'm glad; glad that he knows what lies ahead and accepted, and won't be shocked when that cold hard hand comes knocking.
'Preparing to leave,' he repeats.
I envision a man dressed in a white spacesuit, donning his fishbowl helmet and putting one oversized white boot on the steps leading to the rocket, ready to embark on his journey to the stars.