In time

Just a few little, little things in my head. A growing obsession with time and travel and time travel. Great. Halfway to insane theoretical possibilities. With a whole lot of maths and science that is well beyond my capabilities and my intellect. I shan’t give up though. I mean, why give up on something just because you don’t understand it? I don’t understand work but I keep going every bloody pointless worthless day…
Perhaps I should start with what woke my brain. Actually, nothing woke my brain. I woke up and this was on my mind. It’s stayed for days now and doesn’t seem to be going away. What starts this? The books I’ve been reading? Quite possibly. I’ve recently become obsessed with ‘A wrinkle in time’. So much so I had to read the others in the series. [And, yes, I know these are children’s books. I like children’s books. Some of the writers are damn fine, the content even better. Better yet, they lack the pretention of so much of adult literature.] I’ve been reading a lot of similar stuff lately. Cross dimensions. Subversions of time and consciousness.
And then there’s the feeling that I’ve woken up in a very boring alternate reality or, perhaps, that I’m waking up to just how dull my reality is. I am very annoyed. Alternate realities are supposed to be more, rather than less, interesting.
The problem is, of course, the more boring my reality becomes to me, the more boring I become, the more boring I become in reality, the more I retreat into unreality, thus becoming even more boring, and boring without the willpower to change because the mentality is that life is exceedingly dull, there is no way of changing it to something interesting, so turn back on the dull and go for a more interesting unreality. Detached, frightening, and frightfully dull – but only on the outside - the inside is, for the moment, considerably less dull.
It becomes increasingly obvious that I’m bored. Funny how I’d failed to notice. I fancy a move through space and time. Forward, I cry, on to more interesting things. Forward, I cry, before I fall into a coma of boredom. And take the world with me… Oh wait, too late. The world is paused and waiting, in a coma of consumerism and unhinged wanton civilisation. My part of the world is, anyhow. We have forgotten what it is to be fully awake and fully alive. We take our soma and read that apex of literature, Mr Dan Brown, watch our overly informative, deeply, and intelligently researched Today Tonight, and eat our highly nutritious, wondrously expensive, processed mulch, and dream our little dream of life.
Why does it surprise me that we dream of other realities? What does it surprise me that I wake up dreaming of other realities?