In The Why Cafe, stressed cubicle worker John gets lost en route to his much-needed vacation. He ends up in a small diner in the middle of nowhere, where the friendly staff seems to be oddly clued-in not just about his trip but also his life in general.
Spending an entire night at the diner, John faces several existential questions — the kind that’s important to answer but easy to ignore in our busy everyday lives, and the staff helps him along the way.
Towards the end of his stay, John asks Mike, the cook and owner of the diner, when he first found himself confronted with life’s big questions. Mike explains that, a few years prior, he was just like John: ambitious, overworked, and scheduled down to the last minute.
Then, Mike took a month off after grad school and traveled to Costa Rica with a friend. One day, after an afternoon of bodysurfing at the perfect beach, the two sat on a log, ate fresh mangos, and watched the waves. “As the day wound down, we were relaxing and watching the sky turn from brilliant blue to pink, orange, and red, as the sun began to set,” Mike says. He realized:
“While I had been planning every minute of my life for the last two-and-a-half years, this scene had been repeating itself every day. Paradise had been just a few hours’ plane flight and some dirt roads away, and I didn’t even know it existed. Not only had it existed for the two-and-a-half years I’d been so busy, but the sun had been setting there, and the waves had been crashing upon that beach, for millions if not billions of years.”
For the first time in his life, Mike understood: Every day when the sun sets, today becomes yesterday — and yesterday is dead.
Reality has a habit of breaking up with us.
Every time the sun sets, another day leaves us, never to return. Sometimes it wants to go; sometimes it doesn’t. The day does not get a choice. When its 24 hours are up, like a mayfly, its only task left is to die.
Days are soldiers sent by the sun, each one equipped with a precise mission, a mission they can’t help but fulfill: Buy the human race time. 86,400 seconds, to be exact. For every moment the day fends off its inevitable demise, one second is deposited into some eight billion time accounts. The clock hands are Thanos’ fingers. When they snap into place for the last time, the day collapses instantly. Each soldier has no reason to blame itself. It has bought us all the seconds it could. The day dissolves with a smile.
As a new soldier gets on its way, we awake from our slumber. What happened? Where is yesterday? Often, we feel like it left us high and dry. How could you…just…die? Why didn’t we say something different? Why didn’t we act sooner? At least let us enjoy our fond memories a little longer!
The new day fights for rays of sun falling into our bedroom. We stare at ourselves in the mirror. Where are our second chances? Dead. Buried in the seconds of yesterday, right alongside our valiant friend. Locked inside yesterday’s coffin lies not just time: It contains our mistakes, both those of commission and omission, as well as the joyous moments we won’t get back.
Yesterday fought so we might rectify; so we might enjoy. Whatever it hoped to help us with has now been cast in amber, crooked as it may be, forever frozen in time. It is a legacy we can no longer change. That’s why we’re angry — not with our friend but ourselves — for squandering their gift.
In Good Will Hunting, Matt Damon plays a genius but disturbed 20-year-old named Will. Robin Williams plays Sean, a psychology professor acting as Will’s stand-in psychologist.
Will is brilliant at math, history, law, and just about anything else, but he constantly sabotages his many chances at success, be they career prospects or meaningful relationships. Being the only one who can get even remotely close to Will, Sean discovers Will was — like him — beaten by his foster father.
In an emotional scene, Sean tells Will he is not to blame for the abuse he suffered. “It’s not your fault.” At first, Will is incredulous. “I know, I know,” he says, looking at the floor. Sean repeats the phrase, over and over again. “It’s not your fault.” Will gets angry. “Don’t fuck with me Sean! Not you!” “It’s not your fault.” Eventually, Will breaks down and cries — for what seems like the first time in a long time. Holding a sobbing Will, Sean simply gives him a hug.
Time is indifferent to its passage — but we are not. The sun doesn’t care about another soldier dying, but, whether we do it years later or right away, ultimately, we’ll mourn every single day.
“Where is it?!” the raging widow yells at an empty room. “Where is the rest of our lives? You promised! You promised, and then you left me!” The future is gone, of course. A dream that never was. Until she forgives her husband for dying, however, she won’t be able to look forward — forever cursed to live the same memories rather than build new ones.
It works the same with yesterday, you know? It’s not your fault. No one can stop time from passing. We’re all helpless in this one regard. So start there. Start with forgiveness. It’s not your fault. Forgive yesterday for dying.
Mike felt his realization wash over him like one of the waves he’d been watching:
“I felt very small. My problems, the things I’d stressed about, my worries about the future, all seemed completely unimportant. I realized no matter what I did or didn’t do during my life, whether my decisions were right, wrong, or somewhere in the middle, all of this would still be going on long after I was no longer alive.”
Would you steal from a dead person? Of course not. So please, leave yesterday alone. No matter how much pain, no matter how much sadness, no matter how many mistakes and regrets lie with it, yesterday is still dead. Let it rest. Respect its belongings. You’ll gain nothing from dragging them into today.
Whether you let it go or not, yesterday is already gone. So you might as well say goodbye. Turn around. Look back. Do you see the mountain of yesterdays left in your wake? I know. It’s a lot. Are you trembling in humility? I am. All this sacrifice, given not just freely but happily — all so you might live. It’s enough to make a grown man sob. It’s okay. Not your fault.
What you should do, however, is use it. Make the most of your smallness. Forgive yourself, not just yesterday. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why yesterday kept your failures — so you can go on without them. You don’t have to wait a decade. The day you failed is already dead. It only took 24 hours. Why not forgive yourself right now?
When I was three years old, I saw The Lion King in the cinema. It’s one of my first memories. I’ll never forget Mufasa falling to his death. I’ll always long for hakuna matata. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was six, I panicked while riding my bicycle. I fell off and cut my chin on the pavement. We went to the ER. The waiting took hours. At night, I sat on the couch with stitches, having ice cream. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was nine, we moved to a new town. I cried over losing my friends. In my new school, I sat down next to a stranger. I was scared. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was twelve, we moved again. I had just started getting closer with my crush. The distance made it hard. A few weeks later, we broke up. I wished we’d had more time. I wished I’d told her sooner. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was 15, I was angry at everything. I didn’t know why or what for. Most likely, it was my own mistakes that upset me. Growing up is hard. I listened to Linkin Park all the time. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was 18, I was in love with my best friend. After three long years, I finally confessed. I wrote her a letter. She never responded. I was devastated. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was 21, I got my first glimpse of doing what you love. I knew what I had to do, but I was terrified of burning bridges. Bridges collapse, but people fight back. The emails I sent set fire to something much bigger. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was 24, I made half my annual income from one six-week job. The money was great, but the work made me feel miserable. I vowed to never ghostwrite again. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was 27, my six-figure portfolio crashed 90%. I kicked myself for never cashing out. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
When I was 30, I decided to write a book. I didn’t make progress for months. I doubted my ability to ever finish one, let alone many. Then, today became yesterday, and yesterday is dead.
“Cheers to us and what we had, let’s keep dancing on the broken glass.”
Released from his house amidst a worldwide pandemic, Kygo’s song Broken Glass might still technically be about a couple breaking up rather than time taking a bullet for us, but it sure does feel like the collective hymn of those mourning the death of yesterday, which, now maybe more so than at any point in human history, is all of us.
You’re not alone with your nostalgia, your regret, and your desire to go back to obsessing over long-gone, now-petty-seeming problems. Sometimes, the death of yesterday brings us closer together. Sometimes, it tears us apart. But what yesterday could do for us if it came back doesn’t matter — because we don’t have yesterday. All we have is the power to forgive, first time for passing, and then us.
“All that’s left is smoke and ash, so let’s keep dancing on the broken glass.”
In the video to go with the song, waves crash against a beautiful shore. Could it be in Costa Rica? Somewhere, a day is always fighting; always fading, bequeathing its last seconds upon someone contemplating the setting sun. You could sit there forever and wonder — the answer would always stay the same: It’s not your fault. The sun sets every day for all of us.
Wave at it. Kiss the last rays goodbye. Save your tears for yourself. Make them tears of freedom. You deserve a new start too. You deserve some forgiveness. Don’t let yesterday have died in vain. It’s never too late to dance on the broken glass.