A letter from November 23rd, 2018

Dear FutureMe, 3 year ago from now, you're sitting on your small black couch in your small room. you're on your MacBook pro that i hope you haven't broken yet, and it's 11:03pm on a Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, and you stayed at home all day because your friends are bad at making plans and you felt like sleeping in anyways. but most importantly, you feel like time is passing by too quickly. you feel like there's no present, and that everything is past. yesterday went by with a snap of the finger, and writing this letter right now already feels like you've already written it. everything is going by too quickly, and you miss the times when you were far less intelligent, and didn't have the brain capacity to long, miss, or feel. you're now imagining what it would be like on your deathbed. you're picturing your entire life flash by your eyes, and you're picturing how so many years felt like so long ago, but so current at the same time. because that's time to you. every day passes by in seconds. every month feels like a minute and every year feels so quick and you really wish it wasn't because it feels like life is a race and when you reach the end.... you wish you never did. because everything feels like it's passing so quickly. the first semester of freshman year is almost over and you can already picture it ending and you can already picture graduating high school. because the present time is a present you wish you could grab the concept of. but now just thinking about how you're on your couch typing out this letter, you're not really doing so, because by the time you're thinking back to this you're probably tucking yourself into bed and everything feels like an era that goes by with a blink. and you're trying to grasp onto the lost time, the wasted days, the minutes that are fucking gone because everything just leaves like that and sometimes you wish that months felt longer because you don't want to reach the end of the race. because you're not racing anyone. the only person you're racing is yourself. so you're reading this right now, in 3 years. on november 23rd 2021. but you're actually writing this letter. because when i'm in your place, 3 years would have felt like 3 fucking seconds.