I can't see the future.
It disappears even as I move forward. Though when I think about it, it doesn't feel so much as if I'm moving forward through time - some endless swim, stroking toward an unseen finish line. It feels as if, and seems more likely, that time moves through me. I'm suspended even as I struggle; even as I love. And yet time - existence - churns through my unseen from some kink, some darkness in the road ahead. 

     I have to remind myself, 'Stop swimming'. There's no need to struggle.

The road will carry to you many adventures and other existences. Some will pass you by; some will be delicious, fiery head-ons. Some will slink through some part of you that you didn't even realise was you, and seduce you with sultry, milky sounds and traces will remain, silky laments that stalk your blood and you, still suspended are the only one who will ever know, who will ever be able to name it and decide what it is, and what it means. 

     And yet always, I must remind myself. Stop struggling. Ahead is darkness, but there is colour here too.