That’s a little like asking someone if they want a cup of tea in the morning.
Of course I’ll have one.
The future is vast, formless and unknowable.
Just like a decent omellete.
I may be hungry.
I’ll always have some future, but I’ll try to avoid rushing into it too hard.
For personal reasons, part of me wants to rush two weeks ahead so I don’t have to wait any more.
But that’s absurd.
Life is what you do while you’re waiting for the things that you hope are going to happen.
It’s hard to talk about the future without getting more than a little corny.
It’s what you make it. No fate. Like in terminator two.
It’s the empty page, torn from your notebook and laid out in front of you.
And that means a couple of things.
First of all, it’s daunting. Scary almost.
You’ve got this vast empty space, with every possibility written in it (by not being written on yet).
You’ve got a starting point, now that is something you understand, somewhat. You can see what you can see.
But what to do next?
It’s not like a book that’s been written, where you’re reading on to see what happens next. You are making it happen.
You’re the one with the pen.
And of course we can’t control everything, and the control we do have may be nothing but an illustion. But we still hold our own pen in our hands.
And we can write our part of the story from now on.
We’ve just got to learn to collaborate.
The page is empty, but there’s a lot of people with pens standing around.
It’s a huge bit of paper, but that just makes it harder to make a mark that is recognised.
But don’t let those other people cow you.
You have a story to write after all.
And it’s still your story. Even as it weaves in and out of everyone else’s. You still control your own story. You have the freedom to write or draw what you choose to.
Learning to collaborate, to keep in balance with the stories around you, is probably critical to being happy with what you create.
And life is that creativity.
I may be wrong about all of this.
Free will may be an illusion.
And life may be a series of things outside of your control that you react to on impulse and justify to yourself, creating a narrative identity to try and keep yourself from feeling pathetic and futile.
But I say, screw that for a bag of chips.
I want a cup of tea, an omellete, and a big piece of paper to scribble on.
That’s all I ask from life. And I feel like I get it.
In the future, that which is laid out before us. We get a space of possibility to play with.
So let’s play in it.
Go for a dance maybe.
After I’ve had some dinner.
Illustration by Adam.