Dear Future,

 

I used to be obsessed.

With what, you ask?

Was it

The Hunger Games?

Tumblr?

The Fault In Our Stars?

Starbucks?

Zac Efron?

Some other ripped hunk that all teenaged girls adored?

 

No. No to all of those.

 

I was obsessed with

keeping

track

of

time.

Tick. Tock.

Recording everything:

Keeping every receipt,

writing down almost everything I did,

even if it was going to school and walking home, kicking the sidewalk and getting dirt all over my five-year-old Converse.

 

I wanted the world to know I existed, that I had lived here.

I wanted to leave a mark, even if it was a small one.

I wanted to be the one to leave behind something that archaeologists

or scientists from the future would discover.

I just wanted to feel like I was important, that I had contributed to something.

 

But doesn’t everyone?

 

Because time is fleeting. And so are we.

 

So how do we let the world know that in all the

78 years

or 936 months

or 4069 weeks

or 28,488 days

or 683733 hours

that we were expected to live, that we had lived at all?

 

Tick. Tock.

 

Love,

Your Past