The wolves we dreamed of incessantly as children no longer trouble our sleep. A crack between the curtain and the window no longer summons the demons from deepest imagination. Still, the terror that gave birth to such visions has not gone away. What the child dreams in fear is no mere delusion but a premonition of what awaits her in waking life: the nightmare for which there are no soothing words, the one from which not even our parents know how to wake.
Of all the rituals that accompany the new year, few give voice to our collective delusion better than the so-called resolution. In a world where only a few can win, where strength is denied to all but the strong, there is something more than a little perverse in this practice that pretends otherwise. And yet, the delusion is not entirely that. For only the poorest vision could fail to detect the utopian bent of all such resolutions; the deep longing that things might, just this once, come out otherwise; the true voice that prays, dear God, do not make this a year like all the rest. In the recesses of even our deepest perversions lies the goodness that could spell their end.