Five Seconds Before the New Year
“Five seconds is longer than we think. Long enough to decide not to rush.”
It is Lunar New Year’s Eve. Somewhere outside, there are lights.
Voices.
Laughter rising and falling like fireworks.
Tonight, I choose something quieter.
A glass. A small pour of bourbon. And five seconds.
I hold the first sip in my mouth before letting it travel down.
Five seconds is longer than we think.
Long enough to feel the heat. Long enough to notice the layers. Long enough to decide not to rush.
I am not drinking to celebrate loudly. Not to forget the year behind me.
This is not about excess. It is about attention. The burn arrives first — sharp, undeniable.
Then it softens.
Warms.
Settles.
Most things in life follow the same path.
A year begins with noise.
It ends in reflection.
Some days were bright.
Some days felt heavier than I admitted.
There were moments I grew quietly.
Moments I stayed the same.
Moments I handled better than the year before.
And that counts.
Holding the bourbon for five seconds
feels like holding the year itself.
Not pushing it away.
Not swallowing it whole.
Just allowing it to exist
fully.
Outside, the world turns forward.
Inside, I take inventory.
What do I carry into the next year?
What do I finally set down?
I do not need fireworks to mark the transition.
I need clarity.
The glass lowers.
The warmth moves inward.
Another year does the same.
From out
to the inner.
And when the new year arrives,
I do not shout.
I simply sit there —
aware, steady,
and ready to begin again.
That is enough.