Sometimes I think we have an institutional compulsion to date everything just to keep ourselves chained to the past. Everything has to be dated – checks, notes, emails, papers. Every time I write a date, my mind goes on a search, looking through the mental files for the significance – for the past.
“On this day in 1982…”
“On this day in 1976…”
“On this day in 1949…”
“On this day in 1998…”
And I giggle.
Or I sigh.
Or I grimace.
Or I cry.
But I remember.
I remark.
I notice.
If only writing the date weren’t so goddamn ubiquitous, maybe we could live in the moment – maybe we could live in the now. But the date – that goddamn date – it sucks me in every time.
F---ing dates.
Why can’t I just write “today”?
…
Because then I would never write “yesterday”.
…
And when would I write “tomorrow”?
1 comment:
Yeah, dates are hard to get.
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I'm sorry, which type of dates are you talking about?
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