The Time Traveler 2025

The birds chirp and down the keys are tapped. We’re writing again. The ears, the eyes, the hands, the mouth. Yes, the mouth whispers the words to the fingers and ears listen to the keys that tell eyes the stories of what once was, what might me, and what never will. In time, the stories told are just that. Stories told. The mind decides what’s true and not.

Welcome back Time Traveler. Tell us of your world. 

Ahh, the world that is… 

Is only because of the world that was. I’ll start with that. The dream of the giant world and the tiny people. Every night for days and weeks and months, the same dream. Off to bed you go, away from the mad world. The trains, the highway, the parkway, the airport, the helicopters, the horns, the sirens, the beeps, the screams, the radios, the mad world, the mad mad world. And there you lay, close your eyes and hope for the sweet dream… 

But again and again it is not sweet. 

You dream you are small, even smaller than you are now. And all of the things, the mad things. They are even bigger, louder, madder than they are in the days. It is many steps to get down from the top of the pillow only moments ago you used to rest your head and all of the hopefull thoughts within it. The pillow is now size of a small mountain. Inside the wrinkles of the valley of sheets below lie shadows that beg to be walked through. 

It is not courage that fuels the fire to come down from the mountain of comfort. 

Fear. 

A fear of dying before tasting something more than just the madness of the world. 

Somewhere, out there, beyond the bitter taste of these waking moments there’s something sweet. 

Mmmmm… Something sweet. 

Out there, at the edge of the shadows lies an even bigger valley below. Toys of childhood strewn about, lie like monuments to a society that never wants you not to be doing something. 

Obsticals. 

Go around. Go over, Go under. Go out the door or go out the window. It doesn’t matter, just do something besides playing their game day in and day out. 

Options. 

The responsibility of options. Those things hiding beyond the distractions. 

Choices. In the short run, they make no difference. Every morning, you wake up again, in the same bed, in the same house, in the same world. Mad world. Mad, mad world. Bitter is the taste of these mornings. 

For many days, many weeks, many months, the mornings are bitter, the days are mad and the nights are… worse. 

Until a choice is made. 

Use the days to clear the path to make the journey of night flow. 

The world is not mad. The world is the world. It will always be big. And we will always be small. Sweet are the steps we take to get to the other side. 

The world of no-thing. No obsticles, no choices. No thing bitter. No thing sweet. No thing mad… No thing happy. 

Now…

The gentile, June wind blows through me. Here, at my desk, my mind sways from this moment like the trees around me. My heart hums with the crickets in the distance. Still is my body. I made it. 

Off the pillow, out of the bed. Down the wall, through the valley, into the world… and out the other side. 

Time was traveled… and here… the world is different. It is not sweet. It is not bitter. There is peace, but there is also danger.

Danger of slipping back to the place once came. 

Even in stillness, surrounded by peace… and danger… we press on. 

Still stepping. 

Now…

I look back to see what’s changed. It’s more pretty than I ever imagined. Even prettier than it was when I lived it. If you want, I’ll tell you about the places between there and here. It will take your time though. In the beginning, I wasn’t completely truthful… Those weeks and those months… well they turned to years. And those years… well they turned to lifetimes. Just to get here, many lives have been lived, many selves have been died, but the one who sits here today… he’s not the one from the stories, he’s the one that made it. 

-The Time Traveler… Still stepping.