Time is on on my side.

Why can't they teach us about time and his persistent will to complete the job? Yes. Time is a man, a marathon runner covered in sweat, veins bulging on thick calves, and cross country sneakers covered in shit droplets because, of course, there is no bathroom break for this marathon runner.

Instead of Algebra, why not teach us about now, which will soon be what was? It's confusing sometimes when I contemplate past chapters in my life. Wasn't I just there, living in that memory? When did I end up here, and why can't I have a say in it?    

Circa, 2012. My dad's couch is a deep maroon; as I dissolve into the memory, I can feel its cold touch against my skin when nestled in its lap, the leather cushions squealing. Where is the remote? Scrolling through the cable menu. The glistening reflection of the pool to my right catches my focus. It's a nice day for a swim. So hot outside. Ugh, Florida, shit then, shit now. 

 Four years old here. I'm at a park in Sharonville, Ohio. I think my brother's playing soccer, not too sure, the memory is hazy. The outer perimeter is foggy like a busted lens; I can only see the direct center. A girl sits across from me, asking my age. Four fingers. I remember this. I hold up four fingers, "I'm four!" Why did my brain choose to keep this memory and not others? Why don't I remember what happened ten minutes before the girl inquired about my age? Why not what I had for breakfast or what was on the tellie as I ate?

You see, time travel won't be stepping inside a phone booth, American or British. Not a Delorean or a fridge. No wormhole or slippage through space-time. It'll be our memories. Our brains choose those random slices of time as checkpoints for our future selves in order to observe and dream. That's time travel. 

Also, I'm pretty sure I was five in that memory at the park, but I told her I was four. Dumb bitch.