Kids of the future

Kids of the future world, will you have drugs to sustain your memory? Will you have exoskeletons for your youth? Where will your muscles be? Who will your idols be?

It's snowing softly here in Montreal. The sky is gray, tinted with a pale, ordinary light. I am trying to figure out what young people are doing these days. It's said that they're glued to their phones, that they've known more of existence through the precision of their mirror screens than through the brutal failures of childhood. I'm no longer part of this universe of beginnings, so I can't comment.

I'm not nostalgic. I don't think my childhood was better or worse. My screen was my ignorance, driven by vivid impulses, supposedly real but probably also vain.

Every youth lives in its own time, and every living being moves forward according to its hours and clocks. Nothing new in the future. I'm not the one who's going to take offence. I already submit to magnificent robots in my head, inventing gods that I borrow from the memory of dead peoples.

Continuity has its labyrinths in which we lose ourselves and invent. It's always the beginning of an adventure that will flourish into the mists of time.