Postcards
It comes as an image, a feeling, a phrase you do not remember learning. A sudden pull toward a place you have never been, a hesitation before stepping forward, a sense of knowing that does not belong to your past but to something else, something ahead, waiting, watching, already lived.
We are used to thinking of memory as a looking back, as a retrieval of what has already been. But what if memory also moves forward? What if, in ways we do not fully understand, we are remembering what has not yet happened?
Perhaps the future is not silent. It does not wait in perfect stillness for us to arrive. It leans toward us, it calls back, it sends its messages in strange and sideways ways, through the dream that unsettles us, through the déjà vu that grips us mid-step, through the moment when we pause for no apparent reason, only to find that if we had not, something irrevocable might have followed.
Somewhere in us, we already know.
Not in the way we wish to, cleanly, precisely, like reading a map, but in the way a shoreline knows the shape of the tide before it arrives, in the way a bird turns before the storm has even darkened the horizon.
It is not always a gift. Sometimes it comes as a burden, a weight we do not yet know how to carry. The unshakable certainty that a door will close before it does. The quiet grief of seeing the end before the beginning has even had its chance.
And yet, these glimpses are not given to us to wield as control. They do not come to fix the future in place, but to weave us into its unfolding more intimately, to let us feel its currents before we are swept into them, to remind us that time is not something we pass through, but something that passes through us.
A postcard, a whisper, a knowing that arrives before its time.
Not to warn, not to dictate, but to ask:
Will you listen?
Will you trust that what you glimpse is not an accident?
Will you move toward the horizon, even when you have seen its shape before?
This resonates deeply! As always, thank you, Andres.