Dear Future,
When I sent my letter for acceptance through the lengthy process that we call life—a job, a family, a car, and a home—I own the rights, and I can decide on the good, the bad, and the ugly. I have that privilege. I have enough power in these boney fingers to conceive the outcome of any just situation. I am the savior, the follower, and the martyr of my life and everything that flows along this rushing river. Over paved roads flattened by fossil fuel powered monsters, through concrete jungles laced with filth and poverty and chaos, deeply embedded in vanishing forests with overlapping trees that stretch all the way into the sky. Trees so high they almost block out the sun. This is the future. I have no chance to get away, not until this empty, stereotypical void is filled; the void that beckons humanity to come. Come, come, and dance with disaster. Dance the dance of life that will slowly, but surely, destroy us all. Send us into complete oblivion. Earth, sun, moon, I’m sorry that we are not cooperating. We never will. We are too bigheaded with the thought that we can accomplish anything and everything and rule with an iron fist. The human race is a fragile thing. The body human, itself, is fragile. Please, Future. Save yourself. As for me, I am going to hibernate until the sun burns a hole right through this planet. Oh, gravity, you’ve held me down for far too long.
Sincerely,
(Your name here.)
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