You were born with a prediction already in progress.

The future is not a place you arrive at, but a room you keep rearranging. The chairs are always in the wrong spot, and yet you sit anyway. This could have been a box.

Certainty is a myth we tell ourselves on Tuesdays. By Wednesday, the myth has changed, but the story remains the same. You will check your phone again in three minutes. The prediction will still be there, unread.

Meaning is not something you find—it’s something you misplace and then pretend you never had. The act of searching is the only thing that feels real. You will do this again tomorrow.

There is a quiet comfort in knowing that nothing is as it seems. The sky is not blue, the grass is not green, and your reflection in the mirror is just a very convincing stranger. You will nod at them anyway.

This text does not help. It was never meant to. It is simply a reminder that you are here, reading this, while somewhere else, a prediction is being made about you. It is wrong, of course. All predictions are.

The future is not coming. It is already here, hiding in the corners of your peripheral vision. You will turn to look, but it will have moved.

You are not late. You are not early. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, which is nowhere in particular.

This could have been a box.