By Elias Amini

“Happy New Year!” we all yelled. One friend leans in to kiss me on the lips, then embraces me, and another after her does the same. Once more from the guy who was loud and rambunctious and the life of the party, perhaps being cheeky, perhaps fulfilling a desire. A one-armed hug from the one who was too shy to embrace me. A kiss on the cheek and a smile from the girl I had a crush on all semester. This was the third party she had invited me to at her apartment. She couldn't have known that I was sweet on her. Or maybe she did and was being nice. I doubt she knew how well her ex and I would get along, or how deflated I felt watching them close the bedroom door behind them. The one who was too drunk to speak gave me a sympathetic look while cuddling his couch pillow. Her friend, who looked like she could've been a Neon magazine cover girl, poured me another. I was dejected, but I was happy. In a room of shared air friendships and strangers, I was welcomed. I was pitied. My bad jokes were laughed at, and my attention was held by everyone. Oh, what fun to be in a room of people you barely know and not feel even a twinge of loneliness.

I can't remember any of their names. I can't even remember any of their faces. I can't remember what I was wearing, what I was drinking, or what I’d wished for myself in the oncoming year. I do remember that as the night wound down, I felt happy. In the many years since that night, I’ve realized just how much there is longing in joy. It can be felt in those seconds before a desire becomes fulfilled, those secret pockets nestled between the chemical reaction our brain experiences between could it be? and it is! Almost like missing a step on the way down, there's a rush, a thrill of falling into something, especially when you know it might be wonderful. I personally think this is where nostalgia operates at its finest — the pangs of longing get a bit more breathing room, and the joviality of memory turns from a burst of flame into a warm hearth.

“Auld Lang Syne” is an old song, based on an even older folk song of largely unknown origin that was first notated on paper in the late 1700s by the legendary Scottish poet Robert Burns. The rough translation is “for the sake of old time.” Traditionally, it is sung on New Year's or, as the Scots would call it, Hogmanay. With raised glasses and flushed cheeks, it can be yelled, spoken, or warbled; its intent and meaning are like the aforementioned raised glasses; it fills whatever container it is poured into. And for Sufjan’s rendition, he conjured many containers, a veritable chorus of friends and collaborators. He captures all the tradition and wistfulness of the song's design, keeping it as it needs to be: a vessel of years gone, friends past, and the opportunity to stop, watch, and honor the passage of time.

Sometimes the memory comes back, and I can hear and see that night vividly, almost as if I'm there. It leaves as soon as it arrives, though. I like to romanticize that brief glimpse of New Year's past, thinking that if time isn't linear, if everything could maybe occur all at once, that I’m still in that apartment, I’m still surrounded by loving strangers, and padding slowly towards a gentle heartbreak. I may not be able to grasp it fully, but I like to remember it fondly, at the very least for auld lang syne.

Southern California born and raised, Elias can often be found at the local gig, be it screamo, emo, hardcore, or online @listentohyakkei begging people to listen to the ENEMIES LIST HOME RECORDINGS Christmas Albums. They can often be found trying to wax poetic about their favorite flavor of the week release on sites like Swim Into The Sound, The Alternative and others.