The sound of something that’s over is a train whistle in the distance—headed full force in a direction that you may even wish to go, but cannot. The destination itself, or your collective desire to get there, is irrelevant; you’re simply left behind without recourse.
You stand there, abandoned on the platform. No forwarded call, no directive can stop the train after it begins to roll, the grind of metal on metal, the blast of steam in your ears, the rush of momentum as it moves on and leaves you looking on, smaller and smaller.
The call of the future—what you are and who you’ll be—is like that: unstoppable. Everything is eventual, and though we may have free will to choose a path, decide left or right, it doesn’t really matter…a notion that can actually be comforting.
Look behind you as the train pulls away and you’ll find that you’re on it, waving goodbye to the figure on the platform as she grows smaller and smaller. Say farewell to the home you thought you knew, the life you could lead with your eyes shut, and every sign and truth that once served as a trusted guide post. Everything is eventual and finite—and will at some point be over. And soon. Now, and now, and now.
Like you—the you who existed mere moments ago. The question becomes: in a world that is born, lives, and dies in an instant, then another and another—who are you now? And now? And now?