Time was never our allied, regardless: not a year goes by without a celebration. Everything takes time, and time takes upon everything. Time’s absolute teleology comprises all: those who were born to blossom, will also bloom to perish. We could cry over this last sentence, but we don’t. Instead, we snub dead and its fate, while yet another Champagne bottle gaudily pop’s over the corvus call. If there can be nothing happy for the person over whom some fear always looms: tell me, why do we keep on celebrating?

Last night, I debated between various possible knots for my ivory angora scarf. It seemed like a relevant question when preparing to face the threatening cold winter and my heart’s silent sorrow. I fashioned the scarf over a white shirt in a European Loop. It was new years eve and unwillingly, we were on a date.

A last minute plan had me dinning with a female friend and her mother. That, or starving myself to dead grieving my previous ex-boyfriends abandonments. I reckoned that I would be better of focusing on eating sushi while forcefully neglecting all evidences of being a fallen aristocrat. The gate closed slowly behind us, as we pinched the outdoors silence with coupé’s doors shutting, and alarm lockers beeping. Beneath the night sky, we walked through the garden darkened by leafy trees. When entering the main hall, instead of a party scene, I found a large concavity in the black marble floor, possibly a indoors fountain, now empty and hunted by the twilight shining trough the 90’s glass dome. There was a cold breeze and only the clicking of Yves Saint Laurent heels resounded across the house. No one said so, but expectations were out of the menu.

One by one, everyone had failed us. First, I was ditched by my long time boyfriend who moved out of the country to pursuit a more enticing life – no strings attached. Also missing, the mentally unbalanced girlfriend who couldn’t help herself to find some balance – its always me time up in there. And finally, the ER doctor who expectedly traded us for a shameless threesome with anonymous Friday night skanks. Yes, social minefield had bombed, and we were left to pick up the pieces. Between her mother’s besetting jewels and my friend’s feline hot-pink nails, I settled for an artistic escape from the evening’s horror.

Time is indeed our master, and the moment you set up a plan, destiny digs a hole.

Besides the plain but shimmery appearance of the hostess platinum pendant – with tiny colorful precious stones incrusted like a star chart – I could see nothing pass through such desperate housewife, doomed by years of housekeeping: tossed amidst pool party’s and Maybach presentations at Monaco’s casino hotel. How would I ever resound on a trapped motherly mind who is known to bring medieval amours from her trips to Bali? Never. Superficially amused by her sense of kitsch, I kept a AYOR warning over questioning or chattering.

I was feeling raged over people’s overall lack of loyalty and long lost sense of nobility…Hiding amidst the coyness of candle light, I asked myself how come my boyfriend had traded me for an hypothyrodic polish slut. And why were best friends pulling a Maria Callas (suicidal notes included) on New Year’s Eve?  Further, why was I toasting to tricky time that never slows, when I should have followed both criminals and crushed each others head with Jupiter’s solid gold ceptrum?

No one answered. However seemingly out of the blue, a voice raised to interrupt my fury. I feel your anguished sense of justice. – she said.

Immediately, I speed dialed Mariah Carey to list check for the symptoms at the time of her emotional breakdown, and then looked for blood stains on my chest, figuring that I had been stabbed to dead with a Veuve Clicqot broken bottle, having woke up in absurdity land afterwards. None tested positive. Hence, that lady was indeed reading my mind.

Unexpectedly, we sailed away from dimensional time and space into a candle light atmosphere where I allowed this stranger to strip my soul, reading through my fears and bones, in that of a kind show Jesus would kill to flaunt during his reigning days – millionaire style. Shedding a real tear over that bare-naked strip,  I knew that my fate had changed. I also knew, that Saint Teresa in Ecstasy and Gabrielle’s Chanel astrology beliefs were more than fanciful tales of weird.  As a skeptical, I might say we tripped. As a lost little boy, I say someone hugged me, whispering the wise words I always wailed to hear – Even tough many will only find me uses, God has an intention.

Why do we celebrate the fear that always looms and the flowers that have to perish? Come rain or shine, we are dancers in the dark. We dance the abysm of the unexpected and the movement of the undesired. And that night, although somewhat neglected and left outside alone by the ones I treasured the most, I felt nevertheless alive: diving in celebratory waters. Not without fear. Not without pain. Each year, we celebrate time because even when you do not move, time will take you places. Let us expect that some day, time will finally take us to the right place.