My favourite thing.
Only twenty days into the new year, but it feels as though already two months have come and gone.
So far, I have: caught the gripping two-hour finish to a popular sci-fi TV series, teared up during the finale of a cooking competition, signed off two big projects at work, rejoiced over two pieces of good news, tried to stop one leaking faucet, put to use one out of two expiring vouchers, and taken just a few steps closer to realising a two-year-old dream. Not necessarily in that order, of course, and I assure you that I do not have an unhealthy obsession with a particular number whatsoever.
But perhaps the best are yet to come: a handful of new albums from my favourite bands, some travel excitement in the cards, a few structural changes at the workplace, dozens of unread books from past warehouse sales, and additional responsibilities (or rather, worries) more befitting that of a mature working adult than a grumpy high school teenager.
Sometimes the signs are simply there: it is when the stars and planets in the universe are aligned so perfectly, and when the skies above are dressed in blue so completely, that you cannot help but feel – and you know, with a certain degree of optimism that you cannot even bear to understand – that maybe, just maybe, things are meant to fall neatly into place.
And they will have to. For our sakes.