Winter is coming: a cold, northern, long and suspenseful season. Six months from now the world will be more pessimistic, tired of the overwhelming sentiment of defeat against the unreasonable forces of tyranny, and their destructive international alliance. Many of us are certain this will happen. Many others subscribe to a different version: by March 2021 the world will believe in Spring again, health recovery figures and righteous economic structural adjustments will finally be in the foreground of what seems like an increasingly undeniable break from the bad news. Who can tell?
Our inability to predict the near future with accuracy is only matched by a growing refusal to seriously try. Future fatigue is when you acknowledge, accept and rejoice in the might of true randomness as the decider of how events unfold. Bad weather reports with no credibility play on mute, and you’re reminded of old color patterns. It’s when you can’t decide which past decade you want to wear tonight.
The business of anticipating the mood and the look of what’s coming is no longer hip, no longer it. All we want is the past, and real time.