A thought I've had regarding timelines is that there are ways in which we fall through universes. I'm talking about the many worlds interpretation of quantum physics. I'm talking about the direction of time. At any quantum splitting point within our lifetimes we are fragmented. From one perspective we may have started off as one version of ourselves but by the time we reach middle age we are innumerable. From another perspective there was never only one of us, as versions of us were formed in very similar versions of our mothers at conception. In the present moment, however, we only know of one coherent version of ourselves.
That version of you has become, already, now, countless versions. What of your consciousness, the consciousness of all of those others? Each of them believes it is the only one of us. The one that counts. The one that matters. But who, to the version of you that you are right now, is your inheritor? Who do you become tomorrow? Are you, now, any of one of those people? Or is that you that just heard those words lost in some very real way, unconnected to any version of you now? And again. Does the consciousness that is you, now, truly exist in all of those future versions? Or is there only one conscious version of you, walking some particular path?
Some versions of you have already died. Some versions of you will die soon. Some versions of you will live until you are very old. What if that consciousness is only ever the you that will live until you die peacefully, in your sleep, at some far distant point?
What if, on the other hand, every version of you is just as conscious as every other. and what if this consciousness, the you you are now, has tumbled inevitably into this timeline where words don't mean what they mean, where truth is as irrational as fiction, and where humanity has proven itself to be not even equal to the worst of the nightmare dystopian pictures created by our artists stretching back into history? Some universes are on burning timelines carrying humanity into a destination of which whatever future those stories imagined barely scratched the surface of the horrors. Future is imperfect, future is not always good. In 1982 you were unfortunate enough to stick with the you that has now become trapped inside this spiral, with the coast on fire, smoke in the sky, and where those who believe lies are more numerous than those who don't.
It's morning though, and it's years later. It's always years later. You'll wake up again.
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