Real

The present sips his whiskey and throws down his cards. The past bitterly pushes her chips to the present, clenching her fist so hard that her nails dig into her palms. She’s an angry woman, and the present an unstoppable man. You see, the present doesn’t begin until you despise it. No one has to move from the past to be the present. The present isn’t a time concept, it’s a headspace. It’s sitting at dinner and eating your meal slowly, holding your wife’s hand while walking under the stars, popping pills with who you think will be with you forever. The present comes when you’re with the moment, when you chew your green beans and talk about your day over wine with your forever, finally taking notice of how chipped her red polish is, and swallowing your habits with your reckless friends. The presence is every day. The past is an illusion.