Jan. 1st, 2011

campkilkare: (Default)
It's funny looking back how much time we used to spend worrying about the future, totally unaware of the inherent contradiction there; even after the scientists began to publish very strange results, things about how time exists only in human minds. Something about how time is only a series of moments, like still slides in a cartoon, and extending infinitely in every direction. Forward is only the way we were facing. I think that's what they said.

I don't have time to learn it properly now, and my memories are vague, no matter how often I revisit them. Vague is vague is vague.

We used up all the time, I guess. Spending it, wasting, killing it. Maybe we just pissed it off, like in Wonderland. The beginning of the end came, I guess, when we developed technology that would worry about the future for us, looking forward and sending back. We worried about a lot of things, about lockstep and predestination, about paradox and compulsion, but we never worried about the one thing we never worry about, which is waste. Conservation. It's the same in every era, I tell you I have seen it. We worry about the wrong things, all the time.

We used it up.

So there are no more futures, only pasts, and we began to learn to face another direction. Directions. Into pasts, which unlike futures are finite; determined, defined. But it's not that bad. Obviously if you go too far back there are no antibiotics and I miss my cellphone and my iPod and my PreVue and it's hard to get used to the smoking. And there are years you want to skip, bad years. No one is camping out in 2001. But there are a lot of years, a lot of good years, and room enough for all of us; the nostalgic can go back as far as they want. My grandmother is working her way back, steadily, year by year. She sent me a postcard from the sixties.

I miss her. I miss a lot of people.

But there are a lot of good years. I spend a lot of time in the summer I turned seventeen, my first time, a lot of fun. A lot of joy. There are a few other people I know her, and we catch each other's eye. We can't talk about it but we can tell. I think we can tell. Maybe it's in my head.

I spent a lot of time worrying about the future when I was seventeen. It's ironic. Ironic and tiresome, going through the motions. It's all right. It's not bad.

It's starting to fade.

It makes sense, doesn't it, that you can only run the tape back so many times. It's starting to fade, and I've been rationing it out. Visiting the years I haven't touched as much. I'm not worried. If this has taught us anything, it's not to worry so much.

We'll figure something out.

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T. Oso

March 2016

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