Someday. The Day that Never Comes.

Some day, when I have the time, I’m going to ...

Some day, when I have the money, I’m going to ...

Have you ever said that?

“Some day ... ” It’s a way we have of reinforcing the illusion that the future is safely far removed, that it doesn’t really touch us.

It’s a lie.

Not an intentional, willful deception, but a lie nonetheless.

Let’s say that, “some day,” I’m going to travel around the world. If that’s really true, if I absolutely intend for that to happen, then I’m making plans.

If it’s not practical today for me to just up and circumnavigate, I can look at what needs to happen first, and second, and third, to end up with that result.

When I set that process in motion, the words “some day ... ” disappear.

I’m making it happen today, right now. In a very real sense, I am already taking the trip.

It may be three years before we actually take the trip, but the words “some day ... ” no longer apply, so I stop using them.

When I say “some day ... ” I’m not really talking about the future.

The future is a reality that I’m connected to by what I’m doing right now.

“Some day ... ” is about some vague possibility that I’m not taking seriously.

“Some day ... ” is not a vision of my future.

“Some day ... ” is a fantasy—nothing more.

Here’s the damage we do with this illusion.

We give weight to our “some day ... ” fantasies; we squeeze some sense of enjoyment from them as if they were real—and thereby give ourselves permission to take no practical action whatsoever while we swim in the comforting sense that those some-day

scenarios will move closer to the unfolding present on their own.

Some day ... The eighth day of the week.

The only day that never comes.

This is the day—this one.

Right here.

Right now.

— John David Mann, The Eighth Day of the Week