We talk about time travel as though it’s impossible, but we experience it every day. A touch, a taste, a sight, a sound, a smell sends me spinning back into the past. My mind is a time machine, and these are the controls that allow me to walk among my memories.

We are always recalling what has been, for the sake of gossip or a story, for information to help us understand, or to relive what is now gone, but we are equally obsessed with the future. Both we can access, if only in our mind. Our time machine is not perfect. It can only project, not create. Perhaps it is better this way.

We talk about time travel as though it’s glorious, but it’s dangerous. With a real time machine, we could magnify the mistakes we make now, returning to the same memory over and over or dwelling in the exciting reality of the future, all this to escape the struggle of everyday life, the tedious progression of time.

A wise man once said, “It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live.” I’m glad time travel is impossible. I’m glad for the slow path. I am glad I must live.

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