I should be growing up by now.

Instead, I just stare out the window and watch as people walk by with insulated paper cups glued to their hands, some dark brew waking them up to the grey world they’ve stepped into.

A train whistle, one lonely report piercing through the late night quiet, has been floating through this neighborhood as if it were some long forgotten station. Then of course there’s the low, window-shaking rumble of articulating buses carrying people on a South-North route from downtown to out of town and many points in between.


He strides through the kitchen with a hurried and anxious gait. Always somewhere to be going, something that needs doing with him being the doer who must get it done.

I know too many who live in this way, if it can be called living at all. What kind of monstrous generation is this that takes no notice of the cracks in the sidewalk much less the cracks that lie within?

We are always looking forward. Forward to the day we are complete, the day we have enough money, the day we meet someone who can take us away from the present moment and place us safely within some chick flick storyline where we are running hand in hand down a grass covered hill with colorful homemade kites flying high above us.

So we live in this way and often view the present as nothing more than a dull waiting room in which we are listening for the door to creak open and our names to be read from a list of “those about to really start living”. You rise from the worn out chair, walk through the door and then your dreams begin to come true.

The present is not enough and therefore the future must hold something more. More satisfying, more movie like, more self-gratifying.

The present you is a more damnable and imperfect version of the future you. At least that’s what we are taught to believe.

And believe we do.


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