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“He didn’t believe in the future, only the present, and as our future, our years, had turned so relentlessly into identical presents, I understood him more. Eight years had passed, and I was still at war, cooking chickens, waiting to go home for good. Eight years of talking about the future, and seeing it, turn into the present. Years of thinking, ‘in another year, I’ll be doing something different,’ and in another year doing just the same. Future. Crossed out. That’s what the war does.” — janette winterson
He didn’t believe in the future, only the present, and as our future, our years, had turned so relentlessly into identical presents, I understood him more. Eight years had passed, and I was still at war, cooking chickens, waiting to go home for good. Eight years of talking about the future, and seeing it, turn into the present. Years of thinking, ‘in another year, I’ll be doing something different,’ and in another year doing just the same.
Future. Crossed out.
That’s what the war does.