The future stains the horizon.
Not a time for plans and projects,
dreams and wanting.
But the moment where all present movement will end,
and go no further.
Hope was jettisoned to the sea, to keep the raft of the tomorrow afloat.
Not for lack of dreaming,
not for lack of wanting something different,
but because becoming is so pregnant with the unstoppable flow of yesterday,
tomorrow will only fit its end.
A future as the answer to the equation of the present,
its propositions explained,
its terms understood,
all its possibilities made fact,
This sea of becoming is not ours to command,
only to sail,
on the edge of sinking,
the waves of causation,
in the hope of being delivered,
trembling but alive.
to the future that’ll belong to no man,
only to time that devours time,
for no other reason that, that, is its nature.
And if the future won’t suit us,
and it won’t,
we must take solace in the knowledge that,
whatever tomorrow may be,
it wont be our fault.
As progress liberated us from all languages of understanding,
we were brought forth to watch,
on the best seats of the house,
the spectacle of humanity moving without reasons to explain it.
For the first time in a long time,
we saw the effervescence of Men with the same eyes that follow the bustle of ants.
now that we know that there’s no will guiding it,
Maybe it was always like this,
Maybe we just didn’t knew it.
Maybe there’s nothing new in this flux that we witness.
But now we know it doesn’t need us,
that we’re not needed to decide our end.
This is the true end of history,
when we avert our eyes from the deeds of men,
to watch only its moving,
forever void of direction.
Trapped in the eternal present,
We see ourselves through the eyes of the Gods.