The past is:
Certain and defined like a ruler, marked out by bad haircuts and people being mean. Whereas the future is slippery and fleeting, always promising and never delivering.
Elusive and hard to get, a carrot on a string that will have rotted to nothing by the time you sink your teeth into it.
Come to the edge it says. The edge of what? It’s always the edge and never the end. That’s how I feel about the future, it’s inconcrete and frustrating, the promise of landing on Mayfair in the next few throws.
I want to flip the monopoly board and storm out, send the chance cards and silver pieces flying.
I have no patience anymore, the long game is too long. I don’t want to go round again or wait to pass go
The future is a trap, a pyramid scheme that reels you in and forces you to pedal your gel nail kits on Facebook until you’re blocked by everyone you ever went to school with. Or when you would go to sit down in assembly, unwavering and confident in the chair’s wooden certainty only to have it pulled away by some sneaky kid, leaving you embarrassed, bruised and not knowing what happened while the headmistress read out the sports notices.
It’s easy to say the future is bright when that theory will never be disproved or proved. Yesterday is the day before’s future but it’s now the past, the effort of the step without any actual progress, accounting to nothing like a sparkly treadmill.
I’m definitely guilty of spending too much time in the future, thinking, planning, waiting, postponing. But I’m breaking up with the future, it’s never there for me, always 15 minutes late. I’m also breaking up with the past who alternates between shoving your nose up to the rose-tinted glass or strapping on those trippy spooky kaleidoscope glasses so tight you lose circulation in your head, making you long for the past, frantically piecing it together like a raggedy snot covered blanket that you keep for sentimental reasons despite it being a biohazard or making you regret every single thing you’ve ever done and want to fall through the floor immediately.
But then all we’re left with is the present.
And that’s boring.
A period of transit and waiting.
Maybe that’s where I am going wrong.
Always in the waiting room for something that will never happen tomorrow and can only possibly happen today
What a terrifying thought, SUffocating and claustrophobic.
That today is the only concrete thing we have.
Suppose I better get out the bath then, the water is getting cold.