I am unapologetically sentimental, a hopeless romantic, and a novelist. That is what’s otherwise known as the trifecta for those who look fondly upon the past. History is romantic, a period one can embellish; it possesses “lure” and “lore;” its poetry and myth become elegant over time.
The future can be inspiring and bright, but we cannot love it. I could not love my wife until I met her or my son until he was born. The future is a concept; it’s aspirational; it’s what we dream and why we plant trees. The past is a possession, one comprised of accumulated experiences whose culmination is what we are in the present.
No one cries in the future. There is no pain in our imagined tomorrows. I stare at a blank page, guided by one unassailable truth: the future cannot echo.
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