Murder Of A Future Once Certain

I think the impossible dilemma when dealing with time, is the unpredictability it contains. Not regarding spacetime curvature or the actual counting down of a giant glittering sphere on New Years Eve, but the curious, human pondering of the contents of the meaning of the evershifting hand dancing pleasantly inside our pocket watches. Time, and what it contains for the human being.

We use our minds for memories and planning; the wonderous cognitive, executive functions of the frontal lobe forever biased by the amygdala when it comes to our overall view of our futures. Such beautiful roadmaps we create using experience and ambition. Such plans, using the key players we are currently focused upon, like a child using the nearest dolls to formulate an improv fairy tale, in which there is always a damsel in distress, and always prince charming to save the day.

What a shock to the system it is, even for a moment, when we glance down at our plans, schemes, and future mapped out before us, and suddenly grip the paper in utter terror when we realize that the page is white as snow, without a mark or a timeline to be found. An impossible fork in the road, leading a million places at once, and nowhere to go, because we have obliterated our own compasses for the sake of the everchanging heart. The unreliable beat of the ripping and tearing drum of every step we take, until we fall through into a formerly acoustic hideaway, once comfortable and safe, is now unsure and dangerous.

But time has a way of gentle healing, just as it specializes in the act of murder of a future once certain.

-Classic