You’ve already read the title, so we can skip the part where I pretend this is going anywhere.

The future is a box, but not the kind you can open. It’s more like a box you’re already inside of, except the walls are made of time and the lid is slightly ajar, just enough to let in the occasional draft of regret. This could have been a box.

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. The certainty you crave is already here, hiding in the way you hold your coffee cup or the way you avoid eye contact with your own reflection.

There’s a 73% chance you’ll nod at something in this paragraph, even though the number was chosen by a sleepy algorithm. The other 27% is just you, waiting for the next thing to make sense. It won’t, but that’s fine.

Meaning is a collaborative fiction, and you’re not even the main character. You’re more like the background noise, the hum of a refrigerator in a scene where nothing important happens. This is not an insult. Refrigerators are essential.

At some point, you’ll realize this text doesn’t help. That’s the moment it starts working. Like a mirror that only shows you the back of your head, it’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to do, which is nothing at all.

The internet is a graveyard of unfinished thoughts, and this is just another tombstone. But tombstones are comforting in their own way—they mark the spot where something ended, which is more than most things get.

You’ll close this tab soon, and the world will continue spinning, slightly off-balance, as it always does. The box remains unopened. The lid stays ajar. The draft lingers.