On one of my last few days in Beijing, my Chinese teacher gave me a bold forecast: in the next three years, my good fortune would gradually diminish to nearly half of what it was while I lived in China. Her source? A Chinese fortune-telling app that pulled its predictions from my birth date.
Of course, I was shocked. Could an app foretell my future? No way.
Her descriptions were vivid. I’d remain lucky toward the end of 2022. And eventually, 2023 would be an “okay” year for my career but not for my pockets. It’d get “worse” in 2024 and 2025, when my luck, love, and career percentage meter would hover between the mid-50s, before gradually picking up speed and stabilizing in 2026—the start of my third Chinese zodiac cycle.
The rest of 2022 turned out to be great. After coming back home, I traveled again—this time to Denmark for my master’s. It has continued this year, when I settled in Prague.
App reminder: 2023 will be an “okay” year, but not for your pockets.
At a recent Filipino Christmas party in Prague, I was asked by a good friend about my general feeling about this year, and what my plans would be for the next one. Quips aside, I said, “I am happy, thankful, and fulfilled in 2023.” Not only have I begun living in Prague, but I have gone on some nice personal and professional trips—Singapore, Taipei, Dubai, and Litomerice. “I am grateful for my good health, opportunities, and realizations. I am thankful for the recovery of my mother and younger brother,” I added. And for 2024, my answer was a simple, “I don’t know”, except for the definite goal of graduating in the winter.
“I don’t know” gaslights the forecast. It attacks the reminder; it hijacks the prediction. Many people fantasize about knowing their future. A tomorrow full of bounty, an upcoming time of harvest—who wouldn’t want that? But how should one react if what’s ahead of them will be bleak, thanks to an app forecast? Letting things be but staying ready to grab any chance ahead and working hard to keep it despite the odds—the power returns to your hands, and not just being held by random technology.
“I don’t know” sounds naïve or even defeatist. But my “I don’t know” is an open invitation to possibilities—a sort of liberation from the uncertainty that dominated my 2020 until just recently. Leaving the comforts of expatriate life in China prompted me to make calculated moves so I wouldn’t burn my pockets. These actions have proven worthwhile: for example, my role as a lecturer at my alma mater has allowed me to serve my community and inspire young journalists. This is personal fulfillment that I might have left out had I remained in my usual course.
Many people warn of the dangers of not knowing: the curious will seek answers, the foolish will wander, and the powerful will take advantage. I know that, of course, but I’d like to see “I don’t know” as pragmatism and a reprieve from the clutches of foretold uncertainty.
App reminder: “2024 will be ‘worse’.
What is worse, anyway?
I recall talking with one of my students about life and hard times. Our talk took some detours—from astronomy to philosophy—with my monologue about existence. “We are not just a random occurrence,” I told her. “Imagine the time it took for atomic remnants of some unknown materials somewhere beyond our reach to come together and become us.”
Yes, that process, in the most scientific and mathematical sense, is random and chaotic. Those atoms might have had worse times—like being ejected by a dying star, then being sucked into a black hole. They might have constituted some shit or become mixed with some unruly material, before being reprocessed as a nutrient for our great ancestors. This is some shitty fiction, isn’t it? But what do we know about the odds of us being here today?
I don’t know.
And that app better not know—maybe it needs an update?
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Photo: Know Your Meme