How do you count your year; 2017 or 2018?

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It’s 2018 – we’re into the second month and not exactly a new year; precisely this timeline appropriate for a retrospection.

How was 2017?

A question that has put off, and sometimes haunted me. Ploughing through the year was not any easier than recounting it on hindsight. Whenever I attempted to reason my choices, I found myself in a convoluted triangle of excuses. From which there is no exit, excuses to wallow in an abyss of nots-. Not doing well; not committing; not putting in sufficient effort.

The year never quite follows the calendar, and 2017 was not a discrete entity but a complex constellation of expectations and surprises from ‘2016’. Lest to say, the latter – or former in this temporal terms – left me satisfied. Enough. And alas, in a perpetual state of noia.

In my pretence to be someone who looks for patterns, stays curious, asks questions and coalesce thoughts into words, I got myself to Shanghai City. My time there was the result of my pursuit of something-different, living with loneliness and something-else. Read: privilege. Privilege, too, sits on a spectrum and the one I owned never got me far enough; I found myself back.

And there’s never a time, more timely, than now working closely on Facebook – with a daily reminder of how the bizarre fragments of 2016 pieced into 2017, falling into 2018. This could just be the very beginning of the year.

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