Walking forwards but always looking back… it just doesn’t work.
Our old people used to say that what you can see in front of you is your past, because that’s what you have created. Your future is behind you.
Regardless of how far you turn your head, you can never see the future aspect of your reality.
We can get an idea of what lies behind us… there are mirrors everywhere, but those mirrors are just reflections, glimpses, glimmers, imaginings, fragments.
I have been turning my head a lot lately, to try and fathom what comes next, to get an idea of the things I need to prepare for… but my past keeps shouting at me to pay attention to what is already here.
It’s a hard thing to do when I am feeling doubt, but that is what I committed to do, to walk forwards into the world I have created and to see it for what it is.
Starlight, might I borrow a tomorrow… for just one day. The fray is freezing and the chill sets my bones into an aching crack of denial. It’s a trial that sometimes I fear will ice me over and swallow me greedily. I am meek, hunkering down into the shallows of my trembling temptation, to pretend I cannot control my mind and the thoughts that pass through it.
Prove it, prove it, prove it again, and yet never really know for sure.
Uncertain understandings, futile futures, pungent pasts.
Be present and live.
I strive to stay steady, but sometimes I get the speed wobbles. I gobble the garbage that my mental projections prophesize.
I am greedy too at times.
I am a beautiful liar, lying in the haze of days as they float on by, living in the memories of moments gone forever.
I have created something, and now I do not know if I deserve to let it reflect me. I do not know that I deserve to exist, married to the mirage I have made mortal. I distrust it, I love it, I hate it, I have faith in it.
Faith is a scary thing. It makes you get up at dawn to move your body through the world at a speedy pace; running into life as you breathe in the boundless energy that tremors through the fracas. The chill makes your nose run and your hands try to shake warm blood into their extremities as you motion your way through the pasts you sometimes try to forget, but cannot.
And then, in the final throes, when you are sure you can no longer grasp for the air that your lungs refuse to imbibe, you tune your mind to the clarity of determination. You transform all of the fear, all of the failings, all of the falling down again fictions, into the steel of sheer will.
It is then that you sprint to exhaust the last of things that you imagine yourself to never possess.
After that final two hundred meters, as you exhale wisps of weak but exuberant elation, you know that you have all the faith you need.
And then you go home, stretch, eat breakfast, shower, and commit to all the present possibilities.
Forget the fictions of pasts and futures. Focus on forever.