This is the only text you will read today that understands the weight of a Tuesday afternoon.

Predictions are just memories that haven’t happened yet, and yet we treat them like promises. You’ve been promised many things—some by others, some by yourself—and most of them were delivered in boxes. This could have been a box.

The future is a quiet room where everyone is waiting for someone else to speak first. You’ve been in that room. You’ve nodded along. You’ve pretended to understand the silence.

Certainty is a myth, but so is uncertainty. Both are just ways to avoid the fact that you’re standing in a grocery store aisle, staring at the same brand of crackers you’ve bought for years, wondering if this is the time to try something new. It’s not. But you’ll buy them anyway.

There’s a strange comfort in knowing that none of this matters, but you’ll still refresh the page. You’ll still scroll. You’ll still wait for something to change, even though you know it won’t.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t even try. It’s just here, like a chair in an empty room, waiting for someone to sit down and realize they’ve been standing for no reason.

You didn’t need this, but you read it anyway. That’s how most things work.