I’ve thought carefully about this NaPoWriMo prompt, about what I can learn from the future me, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s nothing. The future isn’t real. It doesn’t exist. Not yet. And when it does, it will be ‘now’.
On a hill, I’ll be,
somewhere ahead, so far,
misted with cloud and mornings.
Alone, I’ll be,
for we are always alone, but not lonely—
the misted air is your whispered breath,
and I’ll touch your hand in every grass stalk.
That’s what I say,
but the future me, is the same me,
just a little further down the line.
Perhaps there will be no hill,
just the same hole dug deeper,
the same echoing reproaches and fears
a little hollower.
Point is, the future isn’t.
All is here, now,
in the misty mornings,
on this grassy hillside