Our sense of time is dysfunctional.
We’re always trying to change time. Or, rather our place in time
If anyone of us had a time machine we’d go somewhere.
We’d fast-forward ourselves to some imagined point in our future where life has been fulfilled far away from the present in which we find nausea, grief and angst. Or, we catapult ourselves backwards into the past to either (a) relive some past moments we cherish or (b) undo something we’ve did to others or (c) prevent some event or circumstance that is framed by “if I only knew then what I know now.”
Maybe it isn’t time we’d really want to change.
It’s us we’d love to alter if we had the technology. I mean if you could turn into anything, i mean anything, what would it be?
An animal? Another person?
Our culture pushes us perpetually towards the precipice of change, growth, and transformation. Mind you, this is not necessarily a bad thing — it seems a basic human impulse to grow. But what often appears as change are often only shallow shifts rather than deep transformations. For if we, as a culture were to make deep and transformative changes that exist beyond the surface of self, we become defying marketing because there’s nothing we truly need.
If we could transmogrify, if we could shape our shifts, who or what would we become?
And if we don’t like ourselves, or the self we’ve become, should we then go back in time to place where we liked the “self” we were then?
In the end, a cardboard box is still a cardboard box no matter how you flip it.
I guess when we recognize this it matters less how we label the box, and I suppose it truly matters how we fill it and where we choose to fly it.