experimental

You Will Wake Up

experimental, second-person, future-tense, address
experimental, constraint

You will wake up.

You will check your phone before you check your own body. You will read the notifications before you read your own pulse. You will scroll past seven headlines, three advertisements, and one message from someone who cares about you and you will respond to none of them.

You will tell yourself that you will respond later. You will not.

You will open this blog. You will scan the first paragraph. You will decide whether to commit. You will make this decision in less than three seconds. You will not realize you made it at all.

You will disagree with something you read here. You will feel a small flicker of resistance, a tightening in your chest, a word forming on your tongue. You will suppress it. You will move to the next sentence. The disagreement will not disappear. It will settle into your subconscious and color how you read everything that follows.

You will not notice this happening.

You will reach the end of this post. You will close the tab. You will carry something from these words into the rest of your day. A phrase, an image, a feeling you cannot name. You will not know what you carried. You will know only that something changed, a degree of rotation, a shift too small to measure but too large to ignore.

You will forget most of what you read here. You will remember one sentence. You will not be able to predict which one.

You will go back to your life. You will make coffee. You will answer emails. You will sit in traffic. You will have conversations that follow predictable arcs. You will nod. You will smile. You will say the right things.

But something will have shifted.

You will not know what.

You will not need to know.

You will wake up tomorrow and do it all again.

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