There is no future self

Some things I just want to keep.

As I walked away from the house this morning you said, “Have a good day!” I turned to look at you. Could you read the confusion in my brow? I felt myself autotune respond, “You, too!” The lilt of my voice unnatural so early in the morning– before coffee, before breakfast–with sleep still in the back of my throat. The snake shows its tongue; there is a slight breeze–the slightest thing makes me withdraw.

I think in a way–you do make everything about you. You have to keep that perspective: this is not about you. Lose your ego. You need to find that empty space. That hollow space in your belly, in your solitude, where it’s safe. My hand reaches out–threatens to lay claim to you. I tell myself–this is a different kind of story. This is not what you read before.

What else?

You shuffle or you crack and you for a moment lose your shimmer.

What is the story my brain has not written?

That’s something to see.

Everything feels right and wrong at the same time. Is that my voice or yours? If you could unsee me, then maybe I could unsee myself? Maybe I could go back to the nothing space. I am so overcome.

You have to let it go. -What?- Your self.

Maybe your self is just a collection of stories you’ve been told and songs you’ve liked and recipes you’ve tried on rainy Sunday mornings. Maybe your self isn’t a tangible cohesive whole at all, but a person you saw once in a catalog: Oh, I like that scarf. 



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