11:11. 1:11. 2:22. 3:33. Every time I saw repeating numbers, on the clock, smart phone, or even the computer, I opened ajar the door of my heart to sadness. The sometimes-starless sky reminded of my foolishness and cowardice. To the-one-that-got-away out there drinking cola and vodka, I sent a wish of happiness and prosperity, things better said face to face while sharing a bottle of spirit.
On a different kind of story, every time my eyes happened to those repeating numbers, I took the coincidences as a nod of approval from the universe about my return to the world of writing. My creative energy at its lowest after the release of my debut novel, I dabbled into other things for a while: social media marketing & graphic design. The initial promise of gold and glitter didn't keep its flair for long. Soon I found myself as a hiker with no mountain; indecisive clients exploding, projects prematurely ending. With the distractions gone one by one, I returned like a prodigal son to the house of my destiny - the world of writing. The repeating numbers became the universe's way of telling me, "Welcome home. You're on the right path again."
If only I knew then what I know now then I could've avoided those disappointments. The-one-that-got-away would not have gotten away. Dabbling in distractions wouldn't even be a consideration. Time wasted wouldn't have been wasted. Perhaps, my 32nd could've been a more beautiful picture.
Now that I've reached my 33rd, the repeating numbers finally make sense. They now remind me I'm always in charge of shaping my destiny. No more pining for the-one-that-got-away. No more dabbling in distractions. I've seen the future, the one I'm tasked to create. I've seen my future, thanks to the repeating numbers, and it's beautiful.