There is no longer a road between me and my dreams. My dreams do not disappear—they float somewhere high up and off to the side, in a warm bright bubble untethered from the earth. To reach them from the here and now is inconceivable; there is no connecting path.
If I dare to look into the future, my own mind censors me, dropping a heavy black curtain across the pathway of the first tentative thought. My mind is kind—it has become wise in the ways of self-protection. It knows that to permit contemplation of the future is the fastest way to dissolution and despair. For what can lurk beyond that curtain? Only three things: improvement, deterioration or continuance, and two of these three, if they were to be known for certain, could not be borne. They are sustainable, in fact, only through ignorance.
It is a blessing to live on the cutting edge of time, with all that is before us hidden. Stop your ears to psychics, gypsies and angels; banish any who might claim to lift that veil. Orpheus rescuing his love from Hades glanced behind him as he climbed the upward slope, and all was lost. I get through my days by walking backwards; for me, the fatal thing would be to risk a forward look.