DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
Plenty of books fall into this category. I’d love to say I have a strict system for what earns a reread, but let’s be honest: the rules shift every time. Sometimes it’s the writing, sometimes it’s a character who won’t shut up in my head, and other times it’s because the book whispered something suspicious from the shelf—like it knows things. Rereading isn’t a choice at that point. It’s a compulsion. Like the story implanted a post-hypnotic trigger in my brain that activates randomly. And when it does, I drop everything—sleep, obligations, dignity—and reread. Again.
Now, my particular brand of obsession comes with a twist: time travel. I don’t just read about it—I research it. Because yes, I’m building a time machine in my basement. And no, I’m not joking. I know what you’re thinking. This person is completely unhinged. Stop looking at me in that tone of voice. Don’t judge me—I’m backed by science.
Stephen Hawking once said, “Time travel used to be thought of as just science fiction, but Einstein’s theory of general relativity allows for the possibility that we could warp space-time so much that you could go off in a rocket and return before you set out.” So, technically, I’m not crazy—I’m just early.
And Einstein himself—our time-bending MVP—once said, “The distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” That quote haunts me. Because if time really is just an illusion, then maybe my late-night diagrams and basement scribbles aren’t completely absurd. Maybe I’m just trying to see through the illusion. With tools. And snacks.
Some books feel like accomplices in this mission. Einstein’s Dreams is one of them. It’s not a novel in the traditional sense—it’s more like a collection of speculative time experiments disguised as dreams. Time slows, speeds up, loops, fractures. Each version reveals how fragile we are, how much we lean on the idea that time is stable. It made me wonder if I want to manipulate time or if I just want to understand why it controls me so completely.
Then there’s The Psychology of Time Travel, which sounds quirky but plays out like a cautionary tale. It’s brilliant, and it doesn’t flinch. Time travel in that book isn’t just a shiny toy—it messes with identity, memory, and even reality. It shows the mental strain of knowing too much about your own timeline. Honestly, it made me stop mid-chapter and ask, Do I actually want to succeed at this, or do I just like the chase?
This is probably why I’ve started keeping my own book—a messy, ever-growing volume of experiments, part science, part psychology. Charts, notes, theories, emotional meltdowns—it’s all in there. It’s not publishable (yet), but it’s real. And it’s mine. Some people journal. I document the potential collapse of linear time. To each their own.
And then there’s the part no one wants to discuss—the mythic weight of time. The ancient beings who ruled it long before clocks or quantum theory. Chronos, the Greek god who devoured his children just to keep time moving in his favor. The Moirai, weaving destinies and snipping threads when they feel like it. Kāla, the Hindu personification of time, is both destroyer and renewer. Even the Norse Norns, sitting beneath the world tree, are casually deciding fates like it’s a hobby. These entities weren’t just metaphors—they were warnings. Time is power, and it doesn’t like to be tampered with.
The more I study, the more I feel like time isn’t linear—it’s layered. Some theorists say time can fold over itself like a sheet of paper, bringing two distant moments into contact. Others call it fluid, a river that bends, swells, evaporates, and returns in strange new forms. Honestly, I’ve felt both. There are days where the past bleeds into the present like ink on wet paper. There are moments I swear I’ve already lived. Maybe I’m stuck in a fold. Maybe I’m just bad at time management. Either way, I write it all down.¹
And Then She Vanished wasn’t just another trip down the wormhole—it rerouted my entire approach. The way it plays with memory, causality, and the emotional cost of screwing with time? It hit differently. I went in looking for narrative patterns, maybe a clever paradox or two. What I got was a punch to the gut and a blueprint for moral consequences. The book didn’t just mess with time—it made me rethink why I want to.
And maybe that’s the real loop. Because every time I pick up a pen, I feel it. Writing bends time, too. It stretches memory, warps emotion, and compresses decades into a sentence. Every time we write, are we building new worlds, or are we just reconstructing something we have already lived? Maybe stories are our version of time machines. Just paper ones. Slightly safer than the one in my basement.
¹ Excerpt from my “Working Theories of Time” notebook, vol. 3:
- Time is a crumpled map, not a straight road. Folds = déjà vu. Rips = blackout years.
- Fluid time isn’t just poetic—it leaks. Time gets messy around emotional events—breakups, funerals, weird Tuesdays.
- The body remembers time differently than the mind. Proof: muscle memory, grief anniversaries, and spontaneous panic attacks for no logical reason.
- Clocks lie. This isn’t a theory. Just a fact.
This is why I track time like a conspiracy theorist with a mood disorder. It’s all connected. Probably.
Memoirs of Madness 