I remember as a child listening to my Mum scold me for procrastinating, something I truly believed I never did. Hindsight, along with a clear memory has allowed me to see that my Mum was entirely correct with her scoldings, scoldings of this type that were always accompanied with the line: “Tomorrow never comes”. German pragmatism at its finest.
As life would have it, procrastinating would not only become something I detested in others, but it would also be sent to try me via various work colleagues and every now and again, someone that I was dating. I too found myself echoing that very line that used to see me rolling my eyes in contempt at my Mother, the very person who in her own unique way, seemed to live for the hope that tomorrow may bring.
Tomorrow, like many other people and situations in my life, never came. My history was what I was creating today and was heavily influenced by my past and those that had trodden its well worn path, but what of the history of tomorrow? Surely my dreams lie there too, they must go there sometimes, right? Tomorrow became not only that forbidden place my Mum spoke about as a child, a place that only lazy or deluded people seemed to go to, but now it had become my sanctuary of sorts. A place where I could safely park my dreams for a while.
Things became clearer to me as the years passed, faces easier to read and words easier to decipher from fact or fiction. My histories started to become examples for those with lesser years than I, and conversations were not so much about the dreams I was hoping to see come to fruition, but rather those that had. Yesterday left me evaluating, today has me planning, but the history of tomorrow had become the place that those now sacred and far fewer dreams sought for comfort and nurture.
The history of tomorrow, a place that might just be.