Tomorrow is a worry house that willingly, no one calls home. But it calls on them. Takes the mind in its uncertain hands and distorts it. Makes a fort for it and only spoon feeds it what-ifs and shoulds and cants and more what-ifs.
Today is as tangible as air, as dry sand in tight clutch.
The home awaits. How long we are looming over morrow’s gates is entirely up to us. And we won’t be freed until we realize the gatekeeper is none other than ourselves.