This article pretends to be insightful, and so far, it’s doing a good job.

You’ve probably noticed that the future is always arriving, but never quite here. It’s like waiting for a package that’s been marked as “out for delivery” for the last decade. The tracking number is your birth certificate, and the estimated arrival time is a question mark. This could have been a box.

Predictions are just memories that haven’t happened yet. You’ll make a few today, and most of them will be wrong in ways that feel personal. The weather app says it’s going to rain, but you forget your umbrella anyway. The rain doesn’t care about your plans. Neither does this paragraph.

There’s a strange comfort in knowing that certainty is just a mood, not a fact. You can be certain that the sun will rise tomorrow, and also certain that you’ll regret something you say in the next hour. Both are true, and neither changes anything.

At some point, you’ll look at your hands and wonder how they got there. Not in a deep, existential way—more like the way you’d wonder how a stray sock ended up in the freezer. You’ll shrug and move on, because that’s what hands are for.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything, and it doesn’t even try. It’s like a chair that’s just decorative enough to make you question why you’d ever sit on it. And yet, here you are, still reading. Still waiting for something to make sense.

The future isn’t a place you’re going. It’s a place you’re already inventing, one poorly thought-out decision at a time. You’ll get there eventually, but it won’t look like the brochure.

By the time you finish this sentence, something will have changed. Not in a dramatic way—maybe a bird flew past your window, or you remembered you left the stove on. Or maybe nothing at all. The point is, you’ll never know for sure.