There is a moment, just before the moment you realize you’ve forgotten something, that feels like standing in a room you’ve never seen before.

It’s not the forgetting that matters—it’s the room. The walls are a color you can’t name, the air is slightly heavier, and you’re certain you’ve been here before, but only in a dream you don’t remember. This could have been a box.

Predictions are just memories that haven’t happened yet. You’ll make one soon, probably about something small, like whether the next email will be spam or if the coffee will taste the same as yesterday. The future is just a series of these guesses, stacked like plates in a cabinet you never open.

At some point, you’ll look at your hands and wonder why they feel familiar. This is normal. The body is a strange container for time, holding moments that refuse to stay important. You’ll check your phone, not because you expect anything, but because it’s a habit that feels like progress.

Certainty is overrated. The most interesting things happen in the gaps between what you know and what you assume. For example, you’re probably sitting down right now, but you didn’t think about it until this sentence. Now you’re aware of your posture, and it feels slightly wrong. That’s the gap.

This text won’t help you. It’s not supposed to. It’s just here, like a chair in an empty room, waiting for someone to notice it. You might forget it by tomorrow, or you might remember a single line years from now, out of context, and wonder why it stuck.

The future is already here, but it’s unevenly distributed across your desk, your inbox, and the back of your mind. You’ll sort through it later, or you won’t. Either way, the moment will pass, and you’ll be left with the strange comfort of knowing that nothing was ever really urgent.

You’ll close this tab soon. Maybe you’ll open another one, or maybe you’ll just stare at the screen for a while, thinking about nothing in particular. That’s fine. The internet is full of rooms like this.