We are, and always will be, a nomadic peoples.

We pushed through the antique sepia times and cleared a path straight into the contemporary black-and-white. We stumbled into the present and stared, open-mouthed, with adolescent awe. Our voices cracked at the towers of realization before we cleared our throats and stood tall.

No longer the underdeveloped present, we were the seasoned future. We were cellar-aged wines. We were the oak floors beneath faded carpets. We were the treasures buried with pharaohs.

We worked the plains of our minds. We plowed the soil of our imagination and planted the seeds of invention. We wiped our sweaty brows and found that cities grew at our feet. Buildings touched the skies. Bridges crossed the oceans. We learned to communicate with thought alone.

Finding that there was nothing left to create, we made love. We gave our children the names of our fathers in order to honor those forgotten and left in our insatiable, hungry lust for growth. We provided them all they needed; we taught them all we knew.

We put our hands on our hips and stood atop our accomplishments with our living legacies and patted them on the back. We beamed with pride and looked at our future inheritors. We showed our children, the life behind our last names, all that was theirs to be had because we invented it for them.

And in a greed that was only matched by their blind ambition, they knocked us sideways. They stole the bridges from beneath our feet as we fell, staring at the adults with suits and briefcases that we thought were our children. We hit the bottom and clutched at our chests as we gasped at the pangs of heart attack.

Now, suddenly, getting our first gray hairs and eating mushed foods, we are the people we have wronged. We are the people who we named our children after. We are the past.