PresentSelf was right.

Wet, greying skies, the ache of impending darkness at the back of my neck.

An email I wrote to myself a year ago arrived today. It says:

'Dear FutureMe,

you seem to have slipped back into some sort of childhood. When you get home you want to be picked up and carried to bed. You read books about science fiction and long to walk into the fields and never come back.

You feel like you are waiting for something, but you aren't sure whether it's something good or something bad.

You're torn between meeting new people and retreating from people completely. It's a paradox, but your life is too big and too small at the same time.

Aside from that, everything is hunky dory. You had a new bed delivered that promptly snapped in the middle, leading to much nudge-nudge about trying it out my friend. You play with your mp3 player too much and dream of a time when you can drink tea, read books and listen to records without interruption.

It's never going to happen.

Get used to it. This is what the rest of your life is going to be.

Cheers,

PresentSelf'

Unsurprisingly, PresentSelf was right.

Futureme.org: http://futureme.org/