The Waiting Hand comes early

There are a dozen Passage Hands in each year. After the twelfth of these, we recognize the Waiting Hand. It is still quite far off, nearly a full season until the Spring, En'Kara, but I find myself tending toward a pensive demeanor earlier and earlier each year. I think it is the cooler weather, the way we huddle in our cloaks, heads down to avoid the wind, minding the puddles left by the cold rains. It affords us time to ourselves even amidst others. We resist this, of course, being men of Ar, scoffing at the chill by labeling it 'brisk' or 'lively.' We continue to dress our sluts in as brief an attire as the weather will reasonably allow. There is no denying, however, the propensity for self-reflection during this time of year. Many cities will distract themselves from the true nature of the Waiting Hand, allowing their slave girls to run amok just one day before, perhaps justifying the practice as a fitting way to close the year. 'Let the bitches run wild today,' they say to themselves. 'Tomorrow, we will observe the Waiting Hand.' They are wrong, of course. The proper time to celebrate Kajuralia is closer to the Love Feast. It is a festive time when games and races are often sponsored. Men are better disposed to a temporarily unruly girl when the wine is flowing freely and there is a spirit of joy in the air. I prefer to spend the day before the Waiting Hand painting the door to my residence white, having the branches of the brak bush fetched to ward off the ill-omens. It is best to leave the poison of the past in the past and start each year fresh. I am rambling, with far too much on my mind.
The transition from vending whores to investing a greater interest in the Braided Whip has been largely successful. Though the duties of the Magistracy keep me occupied far more than most would deem reasonable, Darwin has shown himself a capable enough proxy at the tavern. Elise supervises the women, a duty she is well-qualified for due the nature of her past owner's business. I would prefer, of course, to be more intimately involved with the running of the tavern, but I have come to understand that the duties of a People's Magistrate, when the overall population of the city is vastly skewed to the lower castes, is nearly an insurmountable task for one man - at least a man of my background. There is a reason, I think, Magistrates are commonly of the Scribes. It is fitting.
The greatest reason for this far-too-early bout of self-reflection is the real lack of anger or even open indignation on the part of my peers. Just a few months prior, they seemed poised to revolt, to stand up and demand their due, equitable representation for the taxes, fees, and fines assessed against their incomes and properties. They have apparently accepted their fate, having been shown their place. Salt, I know, is in the city. The tax is, therefore, unsuitable and improper. I do not have the proof to pursue it further. I would challenge it, demand it be repealed as is the right of my Office, but it would fall on deaf ears. The sharks and profiteers, extortionists and black market dealers have already moved into Ar to prey on a population resigned. Talena does not stand upon the dais beside Myron, Polemarkos of Temos, and Seremides, the Captain of the Guard, informing us that Lurius, fat tarsk of Jad, has our Home Stone clutched in his swollen, sweating fingers, but the lack of ire in my brothers and sisters, scorned citizens of Ar, brings those memories far too close to the front.
Perhaps it is time that I step down.