Trying to accomplish the impossible may be one of the most human things to do. Not that attempting the impossible itself is natural to humanity, rather the courage and determination that prompt such attempt comprise our uniqueness.
Fortune telling is, in a way, one of those impossibilities we often deceive ourselves to be achievable. Yet, what would become of our world if the future was as accessible to our consciousness as the past? Why try to accomplish anything then, if the future is detailed in pages of great books, because all marches onward to atrophy anyhow? Why bother continuing towards the crumpled, desolate void the laws of the universe dictate to be inevitable?
We manage anyways. We tell ourselves that somehow, signs and inclinations grant us a chance at playing peekaboo with the future. We lure ourselves into believing the special senses that “came” to us can bring forth the outcome of a situation important to our causes; then allow that belief, eventually disappoint, or uplift us.
A week’s time isn’t short, neither is it long. For me, it’s a wait that I’ve anticipated this entire summer, and the summer before, and will the summers to come. It’s knowing that eventually I will go through that door, and the passiveness and ache, and onto the next stage. It’s comparable to the convicted before a trial, for the date is set and the only thing left for them, is the time before the inevitable.
Not that I’m attempting to predict what’s to come. For I know the outline, after some repetition, that I will be back at school, and the next chapter is unveiling, just like so many chapters before, as they revealed the opportunities I’ve had.
Or maybe I am foolishly trying to predict the unpredictable, scheduling things without having actual control over the precession anyways. They tangle and ravel in my mind, only substantiating my anxiety for the things to come.
As if I’m waiting for my trial. A trial that will inevitably arrive, a week later.
Am I ready?
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