After how crazy 2016 was, I'd planned for this year to be a time to rest and recover; make some friends and some money, and arrive on the other side with a firmer grip on life and a sound heading for where to go next. Yet somehow, none of that came to be. And I'm now standing here on the edge of a new year feeling even more battered and bloodied than I did at the end of the last one.
Strangely, though, I also feel more hopeful than I did then. I'm not sure if I can really articulate why. Maybe it's that I can honestly say again that I no longer know where I'm going, and that in itself is my natural and healthy state.
While I may carry some scars from this year for a long time, I've reached the end still standing. Bloody, but unbowed, as that moving—if very blasphemous (and even more misquoted)—poem by Henley goes.
I've learned, yet again, that I am certainly not the master of my destiny or the captain of my soul. But that doesn't mean I'm not free. And perhaps the realization that I am not either of those things is, in fact, the only way that I can be truly and fully free.
So with that thought, I bid farewell and adieu to 2017, and welcome 2018, come what may.