FUTURE CROCK

I think my future self is looking back at me

and wondering what the hell I'm doing.

"You freak!" he's probably yelling,

"What have you done with your life?

"How could you not tell that Little Jackie

liked you - loved you - would do anything for you?

She's a model now - she gets paid half a million euros

for an afternoon's work,

and you could have looked at her for free!"

My future self is screaming at me through the timedoor,

telling me of the mistakes I've made

and hinting at the ones coming up.

"Why didn't you enter graphic accountancy?"

he wonders, "You could have been a groundbreaker!

And the technology bubble... how could you not see it was all temporary!"

He hates the decisions that I make

and he wants me to know

in no uncertain terms

what I've done wrong.

"And the Twins! How could you mess up with the TWINS!"

"Uh... that hasn't happened yet."

"Sorry."

The future's not mine for me to see,

apparently, else

the fabric of the universe would rip

shredding open

like a well-worn sheet.

"But wouldn't that save you,"

I ask, "From the fate of being me?"

My future self thinks it over,

then admits, "It's not so bad in your future:

I've got the food I need

the drink.

My feet get washed whenever I like

and Little Jackie does come calling."

"So why're you bothering me?" I say.

"Not much else to do in uptime."

"So because your future heaven is boring,

you're making my life a hell?"

"Well, there's that," I will say,

"But also, I remember it

and if I had to live through this

then so do you."

I sigh,

and take another heaping bowl of grief

from me.