In two years

Today’s news is that the world may be a giant hologram, and this is fine. The world like that is fine because we’re all here.


I haven’t caught anyone by surprise for the last six months. Last week, tonight, sometime, I’ve done unspeakable things, surprising no one because I may be some other kind of projection. Lights reflecting an older surface. Everyone who sees me sees me in two years.

They react to someone who has already done the things I’m doing. I imagine in return they see a reaction back of someone with whatever expansion comes with two years’ time, hear words with two years’ weight. But I am here, at twenty-two, and have not done those things or said them. I am, then, behind myself always. This is how it feels to perpetually wait.

I wonder about my spit; is it mine now that I swallow or mine in two years, or is that the same.

Less than eight months ago someone else washed my hair, and I was a child projecting someone older. Hands that weren’t mine, and a room not ours, but I was a child pretending this was not the most intimate moment. In the elevator I said unreal things and was an adult projecting childhood.

I am waiting, now, for three phone calls, for two persons. They will never call because they already have, and I have already made these decisions. We have and did, but I don’t know, and it is the heaviest fog to wait like this: to somehow catch up. Because we can’t wait for things that have already happened.

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