After years of showing up unannounced, “tomorrow” asks for an extension and throws our overconfident planners off balance.
“Promise,” sighs the lobby clock, “everything will be urgent again — just not yet.”
The news broke on the dot: the word “tomorrow,” declaring itself “a little tired of being constantly expected,” is taking a break. Yes, reader, we realize the absurdity — we’re the ones typing it, after all — but the next page refuses to turn and the hours’ ledge looks ready to sit down. In the same sweep, the morning stretched like a cat, and evening put its coat on inside out to make up time it hadn’t lost.
“It’s the first time I’ve refused to be turned,” confesses P.-Agenda, the shared-kitchen wall calendar, shivering at every moved pushpin. “They’ve been scribbling promises on me since January. You try lining up 31 boxes without blinking.” In notebooks, the to-dos have quietly switched to maybe mode, and the phone alarms, overcome with compassion, buzz under their breath.
Meanwhile, the article you’re reading checks its own punctuation to look serious, then clears its throat: we know that days don’t file for sick leave, that minutes don’t ask for a pillow, and that this paragraph seems to be walking backward. And yet, look how it stands: one sentence chases the next, as if syntax owned a broom.
What to do, then, in the absence of tomorrow? Today offers to put up the stray projects for the time being, with a view of a sensible nap and a promise of slanting light. The day after tomorrow waits in the wings, rehearsing its future conditionals. As for us, we’d gladly place a definitive conclusion here — but it prefers to arrive later; it has its reasons and, for once, we have time to wait for them.
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