Yesterday is happening again. The sky is a rough block of ice under which a world of water is moving. I can remember, for a moment, what life as an amoebae was like. Not so different. Feeling around, taking pieces of the world inside of me, indistinguishable from the rest of existence, save this porous and indecisive border that contains me.
I am sitting on a bus fourteen years ago, ripping a hole in the crotch of my jeans. I am standing on the roof of the world, laying in the ruddy red clay. I am yelling at influencers online who call my avocado toast boring (fuck you, guy, I think your avocado toast is boring.) I am being chased out of the ruins of a half-destroyed school with friends by other, shittier teens. I am a glimmer in my father’s eye. I am paying taxes, paying taxes, paying taxes. I am laughing and the sun is shining crystalline as you and I drive into Yellowstone park. The forest is burning in a way that nature accepts. Nothing new, whispers the placid bison idly trotting by our car. Nothing like before, same as always.
How did this happen? All of this. I don’t remember. I wasn’t paying attention. All I know is that when it comes around again, this time my eyes will be wide open. I plan on taking notes, getting to the bottom of it, even if I’m dead and gone. It’s my right as a spoke on the river wheel, turning, shifting water and running myself down to the beautiful little pieces of a summer’s day.
John Chrostek 