From You to You
Write a letter to your 14-year-old self. Tomorrow, write a letter to yourself in 20 years.
It is now tomorrow, and the fact that you’ve posted a different prompt I’m sure has more to do with inattention than with a sudden attack of conscience.
Because you didn’t listen, did you, when I suggested you might consider the demographic. Not that I really expected you would. That’s the way of the world, now, isn’t it: once you claw your way to the top, you reorganise things in your own interests as fast as you can, to ensure the upstart peasants fade into satisfactory and powerless obscurity.
I could point out that French kings and Russian tsars thought the same way until their thinking powers were abruptly terminated, and that business supremacy is no less vulnerable than hereditary supremacy when the peasants have reached dolly’s wax (you might like to look that up too) – but I’d be wasting time I may not have.
And there’s the crux of the matter.
It’s highly unlikely that in 20 years, I’ll have the wherewithal to gather my (literally) scattered self together enough to read a letter. Ashes in the wind, I’ll be – and a few bits of bone too stubborn for the oven sloshing around in the ocean. Or ashes in an urn popped in a hole the wall with a suitable plaque to mark the spot. That’s up to my heirs and assigns to decide, but either way, the chances I’ll still be here scrabbling for my glasses are not high. I would, after all, be 92.
I could, I suppose, send a long cooee off into the ether, to float around in the firmament with the stars and the empty chip packets jettisoned by astronauts until my soul took delivery in 2035, but it seems rather hit-and-miss. Who’s to say I have a soul? Or that it and the cooee would cross paths at the right time?