We didn't know what we'd found. It was all gold in soundwaves, it would make us rich; we threw it around and made sandcastles with it. Because that's the kind of freedom we all want.
It's weirder looking back, when you know. It's nothing like actually being. The back of your life is a story and that's all you have, and somehow what you do right now will turn into that. It isn't bad, it's the best we can do. But the what's done is nothing like the what is doing, they aren't the same person or construction of thoughts at all. It's a completely different approach. It's like living and reading a book.
The book is just pages, its words that you understand, and even then it's fluid. The words, the constructions, the interpretations, it's like a river that's always in more or less the same place but can't be pinned down to a single frame of existence, not ever, because it will never be somehow definitive as how that river exists. Books are like that, and your past is a book.
The present is nothing like a book. Sometimes people try to make you think of it like a book, but you can't ever. It probably can't even be appropriately analogized to anything. It's a story you're still reading, it's too soon.
It's what everything you did before built a context for. It's an out of control car careening madly down the road, it's the mouse anticipating the pounce of the cat. It's the big wait for something, before it all just turns into a book. A book that sits there, inscrutably solid. It catches you off guard like that, the book does, you wouldn't expect all that confusion from just a book. We thought books were simple. Books are impossible and so is the present, and we keep trying to feel in control of both.