TATAMF - T4 – Future Tax A

The Algorithm That Ate My Future A
T4 – Future Tax

Morning light on another late afternoon,
phone on the nightstand, glowing like a moon.
Calendar full of days I barely lived,
blank little boxes no one ever forgives.

I scroll through old plans like a graveyard feed,
versions of me buried under what I didn’t need.
I thought I only lost a minute here, a night there—
now it looks like whole years missing from the air.

There’s a novel I outlined and never wrote,
a language I started then let erode.
A guitar with dust in every string,
a list of names I rarely ring.

Half-built habits stacked in my head,
like cities mapped but never bred.
Every time I said “later, I’m too drained,”
I paid with a future I never reclaimed.

I watched tutorials at two a.m.,
felt “productive” just learning about them.
But watching is cheaper than learning the craft,
and the tax on my future was hidden in the draft.

The people I loved got a fraction of me,
one eye on them, one eye on the glowing sea.
They were talking, I was “listening,” thumb on glass,
paying in presence for content that passed.

Every “just one more” I thought was small,
a harmless leak in the edge of the wall.
But every tiny scroll, every numbing act,
was a micro-payment on a long-term fact.

Future tax, future tax,
paid in moments I can’t get back.
Every scroll, every drift off track,
writes another line I can’t unsign from the past.

Future tax, quiet and slow,
no invoice, just years that never grow.
I thought it was free to lean back and relax—
but every numb night came with future tax.

I look at my twenties like a ledger of ghosts,
days overdrafted on cheap little doses.
“How did I get here?” is a simple math,
add up all the times I stepped off the path.

All the mornings I woke already tired,
brain full of noise from the clips I acquired.
I gave up sleep to feel less alone,
rented tomorrow to pay for my phone.

There’s a version of me who learned to be brave,
one who took the risk that I always delayed.
I financed my fear with deferrals and feeds,
paid in lost courage and rusted-out dreams.

Nobody called to say the bill came due,
no red letters, just a thinner “you.”
Less patience, less focus, less room to care,
interest on interest on empty air.

If time was money, I defaulted slow,
late fees of sleep from a decade ago.
Arrears in attention, debts in skill,
running up charges I never meant to fill.

No bank will sue me, no court will call,
but the cost shows up in the size of my world.
Fewer doors open, fewer chances to try,
a smaller horizon instead of a sky.

Future tax, future tax,
paid in hours I’ll never get back.
Every scroll, every tired relax,
etched compound interest in the cracks.

Future tax, written in years,
in the things I dodged, in the quiet fears.
I’m counting the cost in the life I lack—
and I’m done buying comfort on my future’s back.