My pain is constant and unending. It was there a year ago and it is here today. It will be here tomorrow and the day after. I do not know the exact form in which I will experience it, whether through a swelling sensation in the skull, or through a sharp pain in the side of my neck, or a stinging on the sides of my toes. It can always surprise me this pain, despite its familiar nature.
The future is the same, and by the future I mean the present and also the past. I can’t predict exactly what form it will come in, whether it will meet me in my bedroom, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean, or in a dusty cloud kicked up by the raking of pig poop. I only know that it will come, and that I will experience it.
These permanent experiences, these perennial themes, are fun to think about on birthdays. Last year I was in my room, the year before that on a beach, and this year I was mostly inhaling unsanitary powders. I don’t know where I will be during my next one, I can make a good guess, that I’ll be back in my room with the white walls and the black picture frames, but the location isn’t so important as the reliable feeling I know I’ll have that day is.
Another year gone, another year to come.