So this is the future. It’s a self replicating virus, everything is going to be better just over the horizon. This is the future, my hands here, on yours, and my eyes lucent from crying. I remember this, every day it wore at me, every day it caught my throat, pacing back and forth, counting the minutes in between until I could find my flying car.
My fingers are longer now, I can feel it. I’m changing every day, cells replicating something with a slightly different chemical balance. This web of veins and neurons, cycling through a thousand things we said to each other.
This is the future, this is learning. It’s bitter like the coffee in the morning that you required before you put your clothes on. Red pants or the open front house-coat I gave you for the last Valentines we ever had, our first. I remember tomorrow already, I know it backward, every minute flowing from me. This time it’s a prison, because I can feel when my smile’s going to crack.
As I grow older, the concept of meaning something has been pressed to me more and over, little sticky pieces of paper that scream at me that I don’t mean anything yet, that there must be something more, that these people with fire in their eyes, they know the plan, they can see, and I am not one of them. I have no creative soul to touch, I can only support these angels above me who fly with visions, who know how to put objects together and create. This is the future, they make it, not me.
Then this happens. I wake up and want to take my clothes off. I want to walk down every crowded street and silently shout a misery wider than a sky can hold. I want to let the sun touch my skin to flame and tell people to make something, to stop playing house and try to find out what they need. I want electricity to crackle off of me to spark wonder in the worlds jaded eyes, because if this can happen to me, it can happen to you.