For a first glance it´s very easy. Tomorrow is the next day after today. But now you have to fill this time interval. There can be routine or new experience, there can be hope or sadness, luck or misery, new learning or forgetting, you can win new friends and loose the old pseudo-friends, read new questions and answers from RG,. But tomorrow only seems to be future. In the moment, when tomorrow begins, it´s present and tomorrow is shifted. It´s the old problem with understanding time. 

Tomorrow is like a dynamic finiteness.  Depending on culture it may mean "tomorrow", "next year"or just the "future"! Thus tomorrow is a term expressing future. 

Tomorrow is all that. It is time, a concept, feeling, and at the same time a  vision.

For a first glance it´s very easy. Tomorrow is the next day after today. But now you have to fill this time interval. There can be routine or new experience, there can be hope or sadness, luck or misery, new learning or forgetting, you can win new friends and loose the old pseudo-friends, read new questions and answers from RG,. But tomorrow only seems to be future. In the moment, when tomorrow begins, it´s present and tomorrow is shifted. It´s the old problem with understanding time. 

Watch it! It is all about tomorrow dear @Marwan! Sreen 1, screen 2...! I like it!

I like this picture, there is always tomorrow!

http://www.whatistomorrow.com/

http://www.selfhelpdaily.com/tomorrow-always-comes/

My dear frirends,

If  the word (tomorrow) may mean "next day,"  "next year,"or simply the "future," what is the future and how can it be described?

I forgot the spanish manana. It can mean just "in the future" or "never".

Tomorrow means the unknown. It means the hope we wanted to be real.  It is longer or shorter day than the previous one.it is to escape from today. Looking for better than the present is tomorrow.  Hopefully tomorrow morning all of you my RG members becam healthier and one day older. 

To friend and colleague, H. Chris Ransford, author of a very lengthy (but intriguing) study on the Horizons of Time, much respect and appreciation for all the modesty of a a scholar he has demonstrated. An acknowledgement remains an order!

Dear All:

Please go through the following poem by Eliot--particularly the lines that have to do with time (enjoy):

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1920.

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,

Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo

Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,

Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats 5

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question…. 10

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go 35

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare 45

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress 65

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

. . . . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep … tired … or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while, 90

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while, 100

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

. . . . . . . .

110

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use, 115

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … 120

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Dear All,

Costas may be right: tomorrow is a dynamically altering finiteness which mentally can be a big challenge. Tomorrow is a phase of our biologic cycle determined by the Earths turning round. Today and tomorrow are separated by a dark phase, the night. The tomorrow may be the symbol of the hope because it starts with the daylight.

I think various cultures determine not the notion of tomorrow but the rapidity of the rhythm of life. Unfortunately, our life is over- accelerated which is a consequence of the Anglo-Saxon predominance of our age.

Dear Marwan,

Thanks for the wonderful poem of Eliot!

The Italian part is of Dante Alighieri The Divine Comedy:

"If I believed that my response was heard

By anyone returning to the world,

this flame would stand and never stir again,

But since no man has ever come alive

out of this gulf of Hell, if I hear true,

I’ll answer, with no fear of infamy"

What is the tomorrow for one who is in the Hell? Is there a tomorrow in the Hell?

Dear Marwan,

Thanks for the wonderful poem of Eliot!

this is another poem on tomorrow but in Arabic

بكرة يا قلبى الحزين تلقى السعاده 

تبقي هانى وابتساماتك معاده 

والسرور يملأ حياتي ويبقى ذاتها 

وعينى تشبع نوم بعد ما طال سهادا 

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing.

— Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5)