January, a beginning that smells of reflection, willingly or violently. Thirty, a number that says nothing, but seems to say everything. Years, a unit that only makes sense in the past.

Today is Aperto's birthday. And I watched Scrubs during the Christmas holidays. Newsletter that compares how the first year of Open was with the first night shift in the hospital to start the year with a retrospective? OK.

Today is a time for self-criticism: I can't remember shit anymore. All the research in order to set up valid methods and tools so as not to miss a single piece of information is transforming my memory into a geographical and non-semantic memory.

3 years ago I was 10 years younger. I heard it in an advertisement, I saw myself in it again. The problem is that physics explains to us how it is possible to go forward in time, but never backwards. But we can try to slow it down.

+1, A percentage point doesn't do much of an effect if you look at numbers through the eyes. An extra point, on the scoreboard, means having come first. Adding a 'plus one' to what we do, makes us be remembered. We talk about it today, in the new issue of #TraleNote.

Too many commitments, so many tentacles to move and not enough coordination. 🐙 I'm not talking about octopuses, but about us when we can't delegate. Is this metaphor thing getting out of hand? Perhaps. But trust me.

Purpose. With the right accent we mean, what motivates us to do what we do? We are with the right people and in the right context, but are we clear about the reason for all this?

I chose this job to work every day in a different sector, Now every sector needs a portfolio, otherwise they won't let you in. And then there are the vertical agencies, clear, clean and shiny, that are tempting. But did the portfolio come first or be vertical?

We talk to a lot of startups every day. Between those who contact us for work and who we meet in our coworking, the question is always that: How can you not step on your feet? Aren't you fighting? The answer is also always the same: yes, we do it, but with a clear axiom in our head. To each his own.

The other day I went to my parents for lunch. Returning to the room and going through my old things, I found a pair of yellow shoes, practically new. Why? I had become the one with the yellow shoes. I remember them teasing me a bit. For a pair of Nikes, yellow.

A cool English name to attract attention? Maybe. But that's exactly how I realized that I had lived from January to the moment I laid my butt on a lawn in Trentino. Everything around me has regained boundaries, very clear, falling on me from the top drawer where it was closed.