Time and time again, we have been made to believe that time is irreversible, that time is paradoxically, infinitely limited. Time and time again, we wonder what it would be like if it isn't, if Stephen Hawking is partially wrong, and backward time travel is actually possible, possible and reasonably priced. Some of us wonder. I wonder. I've been wondering, where I would go, what I would do, whether I would change anything. Today I came to the conclusion that if I could, if time travel was possible, I'd travel back to this day, one year ago.
One year ago today, back to when your lips first grazed mine, back to when our hands first entangled into each other. I don't know what I would say, whether I would use the exact same words I used that day, whether I would even choose to talk at all. Words, like time, are infinitely limited. What I decided I would do instead is sit, and listen. To the racing beat of our hearts, both laminated with white daisy paper petals. Two hearts, lost in a city marinated in noise, polluted with excitement, shouldered by giants, and us, the dwarfs with dreams bigger than the rest of them. Two hearts, finally merged, like colliding plasticine planets in a galaxy far far away.
If time travel was possible, I'd go back and sit on a branch on that tree in Regent's Park. I would smile, looking at us two trying to figure it out, how months of friendship can turn into this, us, back then, right now. You call it blossoming. I call it something else, by a name that is not as yet present in the British English dictionary. If it was possible, I'd like to take you with me, so you'd experience it in the same way I'm vividly experiencing it right now. And when you do, when we both do, we'll go back and do it all over again. And then another time, each time indulging ourselves in a feeling that we somehow missed the first and second time.
But here's the best bit. Here's what I would probably end up doing if time travel became possible. I'd choose to stay right here. I wouldn't go anywhere. I'd stay right here, with you, right now. Because right here, with you, right now, is all I ever longed for, and all I ever needed.
One year ago today, back to when your lips first grazed mine, back to when our hands first entangled into each other. I don't know what I would say, whether I would use the exact same words I used that day, whether I would even choose to talk at all. Words, like time, are infinitely limited. What I decided I would do instead is sit, and listen. To the racing beat of our hearts, both laminated with white daisy paper petals. Two hearts, lost in a city marinated in noise, polluted with excitement, shouldered by giants, and us, the dwarfs with dreams bigger than the rest of them. Two hearts, finally merged, like colliding plasticine planets in a galaxy far far away.
If time travel was possible, I'd go back and sit on a branch on that tree in Regent's Park. I would smile, looking at us two trying to figure it out, how months of friendship can turn into this, us, back then, right now. You call it blossoming. I call it something else, by a name that is not as yet present in the British English dictionary. If it was possible, I'd like to take you with me, so you'd experience it in the same way I'm vividly experiencing it right now. And when you do, when we both do, we'll go back and do it all over again. And then another time, each time indulging ourselves in a feeling that we somehow missed the first and second time.
But here's the best bit. Here's what I would probably end up doing if time travel became possible. I'd choose to stay right here. I wouldn't go anywhere. I'd stay right here, with you, right now. Because right here, with you, right now, is all I ever longed for, and all I ever needed.