waiting for the flood
Blame aiobheil. It's her fault I did this. Not my best, produced in about fifteen minutes -- but you'll see.
Waiting for the Flood
It's raining again. It's been far too long since the last storm -- the punditry and the chatter all wonder if it's global warming or if it's just another drought. This argument is repeated any time the weather gets slightly abnormal, just as it always was.
If it weren't for the calendar, there's little hint that I'm living in the future I dreamed of as a youth. I'm not the same as I was; am I living in the future? To a past self, perhaps. Not now. Things change; things stay the same.
Where are the flying cars? Where's the singularity my friends waited for -- that moment when computers became smart? Where's the cure for the cold? Wasn't the world supposed to end?
It's odd, but we're never actually living in the future. We await the catastrophic storm of future to arrive, but the rain slips through our fingers and becomes the lake of the past. And we're stuck in the eternal present, always waiting for the flood.
And I sit at the table seeing what's new on the nets, and hoping this long-awaited storm drops snow on Shasta. It has been far too long since those slopes had snow.
Waiting for the Flood
It's raining again. It's been far too long since the last storm -- the punditry and the chatter all wonder if it's global warming or if it's just another drought. This argument is repeated any time the weather gets slightly abnormal, just as it always was.
If it weren't for the calendar, there's little hint that I'm living in the future I dreamed of as a youth. I'm not the same as I was; am I living in the future? To a past self, perhaps. Not now. Things change; things stay the same.
Where are the flying cars? Where's the singularity my friends waited for -- that moment when computers became smart? Where's the cure for the cold? Wasn't the world supposed to end?
It's odd, but we're never actually living in the future. We await the catastrophic storm of future to arrive, but the rain slips through our fingers and becomes the lake of the past. And we're stuck in the eternal present, always waiting for the flood.
And I sit at the table seeing what's new on the nets, and hoping this long-awaited storm drops snow on Shasta. It has been far too long since those slopes had snow.