Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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I set a museum date with my future self yesterday.
For some inexplicable reason, I managed to fuck up with time again, and I arrived at the museum fifteen minutes late. My future self was already there, dressed in clothes that I would never be brave enough to wear. She glanced at her watch, saying my tardiness wasn’t appreciated as she didn’t like getting her time wasted. In the end, I apologized.
We wandered inside the museum, side by side. We observed the other people milling about and paused momentarily at paintings that caught our attention. When we reached a surrealist piece in the far corner of the room, she finally asked, “Why did you want to meet me here?”
“I need reassurance,” I said. “And hope.”
“But why?”
“I feel so lost,” I confessed. “I don’t know if things will work out. If all my sacrifices now will mean anything in the end.”
She turned to me. “Of course you’re lost. You know why? Because your old self is gone, but your new self hasn’t fully arrived yet.” Her tone was deliberate. She didn’t stutter her way through every sentence nor did she stop to collect her words. Eloquence had become her. “But yes, everything will work out. Your sacrifices will matter. You just have to live it out to see it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Honey, I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t.” Then she smiled.
At that moment, I squinted because she seemed so radiant. So unlike me that I felt like she was as surreal as the art standing before her. I blinked, and she was gone. But even though she wasn’t visible to the eye anymore, she hadn’t completely left. Her energy lingered, casting its ghost in my bones, so that I felt her within me even on my way home.
Five years from now, I would return to that museum. I would come five minutes early. I would wait for my younger self to tell her the exact same thing.
