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.
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.
Why can’t I just write “today”?
Because then I would never write “yesterday”.
And when would I write “tomorrow”?