Ultimately, literature is a study of the past. Writers assemble (and sometimes disassemble) the images of their life in order to recreate themselves and the characters of their life in the present moment. But the present moment soon becomes the past, and the process repeats itself. Present. Past. Present. Past. Repeat. The present only exists but for a ... now ... and now. Now. And then it is gone. It is the past.
No matter how hard we try to project ourselves into the future, the past is always present, informing and affecting each thought, each action, each pen stroke. The future is unknownable, out of grasp. Our best effort to conceptualize it will always fall short. The future is merely a thrift store of antique memories for which we hope to get a good deal on and refurbish when we have the time. But then again, what is time but a measurement of the past?
—pb.
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