Eight is one of my favourite numbers. I’m not altogether sure why, but the fact that it is must mean there was once a reason for it. So while the logic, the explanation, is lost, I know it’s somewhere, existing, and I can attach meaning to it, the number eight.
Wanting a year to be good is strange. 2017 was not easy, difficult indeed, but in its complexity, I found parts of me I thought were gone. A “good” year feels dull to request in the wake of such intense experience and personal progress. You’ll forgive me for not being specific. Some truths can only be felt anyway. While I’d like to think my words carry weight and the ability to convey what I feel, much of this still feels new and not yet cemented, or ingrained. I’ve laid firm foundations and started to build. That was 2017.
So 2018, what will this new year bring? At this stage, I only know what is certain, the basics; work and university.
Now I can feel possibility, flounder in excitement for the yet-to-be-decided. The unknown is far more exciting when you feel it from a place of security. Unexpected opportunities presented themselves at the tail end of last year, I can only hope that this weird, terrifying, upward spiral continues.
What 2017 taught me is that it’s all ambiguous. And that’s more than okay.
To return to the here and now. Linear time is overrated and not something I fear that much anymore, privileged I am as a 20-something.
I slept in this morning. Woke up feeling too hot for comfort. Threw open my window and breathed in the familiar scent of my neighbourhood; trees, warm bitumen, fading humidity.
What I’m saying is that it’s all good. The number eight will mean everything if I want it too, or nothing at all.
Happy new year, everyone! Here’s to another year of incomprehensible rambling and mutilated writing. All the very best.