Something serious will almost happen, but it won’t.

You can feel it in the way the air hovers just above the surface of things—like a thought you’ve had before, but never finished. The future isn’t coming. It’s already here, sitting quietly in the corner, waiting for you to notice it isn’t doing anything.

Predictions are just memories that haven’t happened yet. You’ll recognize them when they arrive, not because they’re accurate, but because they feel familiar. Like a song you’ve heard in a dream, or the way a stranger’s laugh sounds exactly like someone you used to know.

This could have been a box.

Certainty is overrated. The most interesting things happen in the margins, where the lines blur and the rules forget to apply. You’ll spend years chasing clarity, only to realize that the best moments were the ones you didn’t understand at the time.

There’s a strange comfort in knowing that nothing is as urgent as it seems. The world will keep spinning, emails will go unanswered, and somewhere, a coffee cup will sit half-full on a desk, forgotten. These are the monuments of modern life.

You’ll look back on this and think, “I should have paid more attention.” But you won’t know to what. The details dissolve before they even form. What remains is the shape of something almost important.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything. It’s just a place to rest your eyes for a moment, like a bench in a train station where no trains arrive.

The future is a quiet room with the lights off. You’ll step inside and wait, but nothing will happen. And that’s fine.