“Ma?” Amalia called out loudly into the void as she sat up in her bed. There was no response. Somewhere outside of the apartment, heavy steps descended a stairway. It wasn’t her.
I've always been an avid daydreamer. I can vividly recall summer afternoons standing idly in the right field of a little league game, mitt and hand on knees, waiting for a fly ball that almost never came. During those long fifteen minute spans spent standing, waiting, doing absolutely nothing, my ten-year-old mind had plenty of time to gaze up at the cloud-filled sky and contemplate the mysteries of the universe. I remember thinking about the strangeness of life, about what life as an adult might be like, about the existence of a higher power.
This is a dry run. One of many. I know the path so well I can find in the pitch black of night. I have before. I won't last that long tonight, at least I don't think. But I don't know, I never know. Maybe this is not the dry run. Maybe this is the real thing. I can't know. I don't know my future self as well as I should. In truth I'm a little afraid of him. I have no assumptions on who he will be when I meet him in the depths of the grass.
Time is our enemy. It is a relentless beast that can never be stalled, that never retreats, but will continually march forward at an even pace, dragging us all (the universe included) to an inevitable death. Yikes.
It has been a long time coming, but it is time to learn to disbelieve in the legend of yourself. I know this might seem strange after a lifetime of being told you are special or growing up in a world where very literally anyone could potentially become famous overnight (no matter how fleetingly), but the truth of the matter is, you are no one.