Ode to Self: The Unreliable Narrator

Here's to a year of disjointed memories. I can hardly contain myself — moments slip out of my mind as easily as they enter it, which makes writing in retrospect more of an exercise in embellishment and storytelling than a record of truth and certainty. I am my most unreliable narrator. What happened in 2017? You can trust me to forget about it.

This I know: There was a lot of sleeping on couches. A lot of phasing in and out of fugue-like states. I am a master sleeper, a hunter of ZZZs, a napping natural. Cocooned in a polyester-plush throw, I could live out the rest of my days in cozy, contented comfort.

Consequently, 2017 feels like a long, soft dream. So often I confuse memory with reverie, waking up to strange worlds and dozing off toward familiar ones. I enter the new year with heavy-lidded hopefulness, ready as I'll ever be to explore the yawning expanse ahead. Specific memories aside, I've scored quite a bounty these last twelve months. A little confidence, a lot of love. Friends to last a lifetime. Coin tricks. Afternoons on the beach. Music to my ears.

I'm embarrassed to note the meager number of books I've managed to read, so I won't. But I will mention a few highlights, including a knife-juggling maître d', a cursed castle in the sky, a band of thieves scuttling up a chimney, a man called Shadow. I struggle to stay seated with a good book, let alone a mediocre one, so this year I tried to listen. I still love the tactile experience of pages between my fingers; audiobooks are simply a different kind of magic.

Beyond books, stories in all their forms have sustained me year round. I was fortunate enough to see several exceptional musicals, movies, and shows with people I adore to my core. Luckily I live in a place that lets me bask in experiences like these. Chicago(land) has always been my home, but I've never immersed myself in the city — until halfway through the year. The food, the bustle, the music at every street corner. The people-watching, the storefront displays, the sculptures like trees. I fell in love with this city. I fell in love in this city.

Here's to a new year of fragmented moments. This is the time to dive in, break things, piece them back into something completely new. Let's eat flowers. Let's live barefoot and broken and bold. I swear I will write more and read more, as if my life doesn't already depend on it. What will happen in 2018? I have no clue. I hope it's full of grit. I hope it's grand.