Nowadays I find myself writing for my future self. Like the woman who won’t be in the place I’m in right now. Or these days. Who’ll have made it.
And when I think of her, I assume that the ailments that ail me now, won’t be her concern. I know life always has gracious and ungracious moments. I just hope her ungracious moments will be better. Or of a higher level.
That fear won’t cripple her. That anxiety won’t make her weak in the knees. That people in her life will break her stereotypes of people. That she won’t worry till she wakes up in the middle of the night, chased by her worried nightmares.
I write so that she’ll remember that there were days she had it really bad. When her heart woke up frightened and slept fitfully.
But sometimes I’m conflicted with that. Writing for her that is. Because I’m not too sure I won’t that woman with these memories of today. I want her to run without the burden of memories of when she was once crippled. I want her to enjoy Gambia with the stillness life will have afforded her then. I want her to scuba dive with her carefreeness of then.
But mostly I write to the future me, to survive the present now. If there was a way out of life, without death, I would have taken it. Gladly. Like if we could just say time out and disappear. I don’t think my soul was made for this.
But yet here we are. Here I am. Now. With a past. And hopefully a future.
Sometimes I get people who stand up for me in the little ways they know how. And that kinda assures me that there is a future with hope. Because I’m not used to humans disturbing my little corner of solitude without my permission.
But yet here we are.