He was pushing 60, at least.
So impressed with my poetry he looked me in the face and raved,
“You, are the future.”
I appreciate the sentiment but that is not a compliment because I may
be young but I, am not the future. I am not the future, Sir, any more than you are the
past. You are, wrinkly with a receding hairline yes but the muscle, in your chest beats
and burns just like mine and we are both alive, in the present. I've spent far too many
yesterdays stressing on what I might become tomorrow, while you've wasted timeless
afternoons reminiscing on who you once were but neither of those people are us.
We are not anything but what we are now.
My faith of last week does not please God today.
My future riches does not cancel this poverty.
My former strength does not heal present weakness.
My soon-coming failure does not diminish current victory.
I am not the future, I am not history.
I exist in perpetual nowness.
Rebuking the ghosts of old sins and future fears.
I am nothing but here, and now.
And if I don't like that me, then I must change here, and now.
And if I can't change that me then I must pray here, and now,
that God allow this present step to land a new man.
By the grace of God I am what I am.
I am young, you are old we are both but a breath
any second my inhale will be as your ex.
So let's celebrate this moment in eternity when God saw
us fit to be brothers in the now.
And I know you meant well, dear sweet balding wrinkly faced Sir,
but I hope you understand how much you're worth,
for you are not the past,
and I am not the future.
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