You’ve already decided whether this will be useful or not.

Predictions are just memories that haven’t happened yet. The future is a polite fiction we agree to believe in, like a shared hallucination at a dinner party where no one is eating. You’ll notice this more when you stop trying to notice it.

Certainty is the quietest room in the house. You’ve been there. The walls are painted a color you can’t name, but you recognize it immediately. This could have been a box.

Meaning is not hiding. It’s just not wearing anything you’d recognize as clothes. You’ve seen it before, probably on a Tuesday, when the light was doing that thing where it feels like a question.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t even try. It’s more like a stranger nodding at you from across the street—you’re not sure if you know them, but the nod feels accurate.

The internet is a place where everyone is waiting for something that already arrived. You check your pockets. You check your notifications. You check the fridge. None of these actions are related, but they all feel like progress.

You will forget most of this by tomorrow. The parts you remember will feel like they were always there, like a faint hum in the background of a room you’ve never left.

There’s a comfort in knowing that none of this matters in the way you think it should. The relief is quiet, like the sound of a box being closed.