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.
