Despite half-hearted attempts to make 2023’s New Year’s Eve more exciting, it was, like the previous year, an anti-climax.
We headed down to the Love River, Kaohsiung’s main waterway that ends in the Taiwan Strait. At the highly modern music centre at the yacht club, a few lost souls sat and stood around staring at their phones. Unlike last year, there was no giant screen to inform one how many seconds you have left to make wild promises, and to try to come up with excuses why your promises 365 days ago didn’t quite work out.
Twenty minutes before the end. I slowly sip my hot tea and nibble on a Portuguese egg tart.
Fifteen minutes left. Time to take a quick look at what’s happening on X/Twitter.
Nine minutes. Another tart. Get up and stretch my legs. Recite again what I formulated for 2024.
Three minutes. Take some photos.
“How will I know when the countdown starts?” Quick Google search.
Panic kicks in: 32 seconds before the end of the year. Twelve seconds. “Should I count down on my own?” Four seconds … Screenshot …
Threetwoonezero …
“Wait! I wasn’t ready! No one counted down! Where’re the fireworks?!”
And just like that, one year has passed and another has begun.
Hug a little. Send some messages. Pour the last tea down my throat. Crumble the last egg tart crumbs into the wrapper, and shove it in my pocket.
Back to the scooter. Back to work.
A glorious, unforgettable year waits for no one.
