As we approach the end of the year, I have slipped down on the calendar I have: it is a few days before it is withdrawn. Without a week, I'm going to move from one pendant to another for direct recycling, because the weeks and months, mercilessly, stain it, platter it, wrinkle it, steal it, platter it, to the point that it just imagines to be a living year and a sin. He has done so himself.

At Anarte, I have set out the calendar for the penultimate time, and I have dedicated myself to the nostalgia that is common and proper to us in these times between Christmas and Urtats. Some writings of bluish inks that have already become illegible are lost by days, weeks, months. In a nutshell, the year is at the forefront of everything: an exciting event, a medical appointment, a stall shift, ARGIA’s deadlines for delivering opinions, tax payments and insurance.

I have come to the end of the year and I have seen there the predictions of the days of zotal twelve months ago.

I've remembered a few memories: a very high chair that lived with us, talked about the famous days of the zotal at this time of the year. In the early days of the year (the first twelve, in haste), he watched the time scrupulously. Not everything. But almost. At least two or three times a day, on a piece of paper that detailed the time he did at the time. Then he took that piece of crumbled paper and on a calendar, at the end of every month, in the middle and in the end, he wrote very seriously and very briefly the time he thinks he was going to do. Because it was believing that the time I was doing in those early days of the year was what I had to do in the twelve months of the year, or at least an approximation. For example, the time of 5 January would represent what it would have to do in May.

What for? A culturally-based society to predict what the year could bring, to get rid of the odds and the odds; certainly, in the hope of mastering fears, time and nature. Surely all these beliefs point to the hope that last year is better.

However, we spent all year, linking the calendar to the kitchen wall, reading the notes that had been set month by month, to see if the predictions were made. And it has to be acknowledged that in eight out of ten we had to be right.

There are still those who follow the habit of those days, although today weather services are more developed than ever, those of us who are going to write the atmosphere, very seriously, to keep us on a piece of traditional ruined paper and in a corner of the kitchen, perhaps not going back.

Maybe they're superstitions, and whoever believes can find and prove his. Perhaps your comment is possible. No matter. I recognize him from the palm, with nostalgia and sincerity, that this year I will also write the time of the days of the zotal, trying to master what is not coming to me. Last year I'll take him to the yellow container. Because I remember the ones I have and I prefer the others I don't remember them. As we can call domination last year, let us go to next year. Wishing that the previous year is (still) better than the previous year, and in any case, Best, let us not forget, because it is still going to happen.