For In Our Dreams, We Walk Further

I walk and I walk and I walk and I walk. I do not know how long I walk, only that it must be more than a million years. I do not tire, do not stop for breath. I walk, an endlessly moving machine, putting one foot in front of the other. Forever.

One forever. Two forevers. Three forevers.

Four forevers.

I glimpse a light in the distance. A bright ray of sunshine, that dims as I run towards it, yellowing and darkening to a sliver of light, barely visible through a crack in the looming mass of pitch black. I close my hands and press my hand on it, urging it to brighten, to open up- and it does. In a single moment, pitch black turns to blinding white, and when I open my eyes again, I face paradise.

Stretches of green, of red and orange and pink and purple. A huge blue sky, white clouds and yellow sun. Small brick houses in the distance, painted white and brown and peach. Tiny people, holding hands and frolicking around. Little animals, cows and dogs and cats. And a giant statue.

It is thirty feet of pure gold, glittering under the sun. A huge — egg, brighter than the sun, giant statue.

Of me.

Ok, so what went wrong this time?

The first time it happened, I was fifteen. I was staying overnight at school, preparing with a bunch of teachers and the principal for a huge event that was scheduled the next week. A couple other students were sleeping along with me on the blankets arranged in the classrooms, but somehow, they didn’t wake up, not even when I shouted in my sleep and glowed like a firefly.

I dreamt, and I dreamt of walking.

The first walk had been the first time I experienced forever. It was long, an interminable stretch of time where nothing happened. There wasn’t a sound, not a light to guide me, not a person in sight. Miles and miles of black ground. So, I walked. It seemed the only logical option at the time.

It took me a few more days to adjust to the forevers, keep count of them.

One, two, three. Sometimes there were only three forevers, when the future was particularly bad. Other times, I’d have to walk longer to reach the good future.

Every time, after no time at all and after all the time in the world, I’d see the sliver of light in the distance. The forever would turn to minutes, back to something I understood, and I’d reach it quickly — faster if I ran. The first time, I saw behind the crack a terrible world — one filled with smoke and radiation and death. The next few hundred times, it was the same. I pieced together what was happening soon enough.

War. The nations attacking each other, people killing other people for power, for resources. It was our future, I realised with a pang. Our future — a nightmare. No one had told me this. I just knew it.

I woke up chilled to the bones every day, trying to forget what I just saw. I spent weeks denying it, making myself believe my mind was just being cruel. I hated every moment, but I couldn’t stop either. I went around in the dream, studied the future, understood it. I told no one of what I saw every night as I lay asleep. No one would understand.

I could speak to the people in the future, of course. If I spoke with intent, or tried to touch someone, they could immediately interact with me. I would appear a part of their world, albeit a clueless one, and then I could extract the information I needed.

It took me longer to understand that it seemed to be a bleak future, with horrors unimaginable, a future that seemed inevitable — except, it wasn’t. Inevitable, that is. It could be changed.

When Obama and Malala and Greta and so many other people made their stand in real life — something changed in the dreams too. The future seemed less bleak, suddenly, there were more people around, there were talks of peace, of reverting back to what things had been before everything had gone to hell.

A couple of nights — only enough to make me understand that things had changed — and then it was back to the horrible version of the future. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

A tree sprung up inside me. Not a fragile flower or a plant — a blooming tree with roots deeper than the Grand Canyon. I understood that it was possible to make it so that we never have to face such times, that all of this hell could be prevented. That in all the blackness I faced, the sliver of light was still there. It would always be there. I had to make a difference. A big enough difference to change everything.

Every time I woke up, I glowed from inside. An actual light coming out of my skin, which made me look ethereal and cancelled all future plans for sleepovers. It seemed weird as heck as first, but it was really another reminder. A reminder that I carried this knowledge, this ability. That I could, I should, I would make everything right.

That’s all I can clearly remember. The conviction, the desire to set the world right, to save humanity and earth — but the rest is an old film reel playing in my mind, like I’m watching someone else do everything I did, the clips hazy and unclear, sometimes skipping over what would be the main scene in a movie, other times focusing too much on an insignificant memory.

The whole dream-the-future thing gave all my skills a huge boost out of nowhere. One day I woke up, able to solve calculus faster than you could say ‘Jack and Jill’. It took six years to finish my education, whizzing through degrees and PhDs’ a couple dozen a year. I knew exactly what I had to study, where I needed to go, who I needed to associate with.

An influx of information flooded my mind, overwhelming in that split second before it condensed into a single ever flowing thread of thought, the neurons in my brain handling and passing over ten times the normal number of signals easy as pie.

And then it was a life of work.

A handshake here, a glass of sherry there, pens and papers and signatures.

A thousand jobs and professions, climbing my way up the ladder of the world. Years being a prodigy, a millionaire, a member of the DRASW, commanding and guiding hundreds of other people, each one with an influence that equalled my own, making them understand what had to be done. Going through with it.

I got my hands on the nuclear codes, the fastest computers in the world, found myself best friend to all the important people in the world.

I felt like God. Other people claimed I was God. It was autumn and the leaves on the tree inside of me had started to fall. I remember those nights when I thought, ‘I can do anything’. Anything. I can build a new empire, turn everyone on earth into my loyal worshipper, claim that I am the creator of the world and convince my subjects. ‘Anything.’ I thought, ‘I should do it.’ I thought, ‘Wait, what? No! That’s a terrible idea.’ And I thought, ‘Is it, though?’

And then I stopped thinking. Winter came, and I had to stop wasting time on unnecessary thoughts like these. I stayed away from any research as to why I even had these abilities, if I should use them for my own gain, pretending that it would be the gain of all humanity. The world was going to end. I didn’t need to do anything except set it right. And the setting it right part was something I absolutely had to do. The thought of not wanting to set it right never crossed my mind. Humanity had to live, for the uncountable reasons that couldn’t be elaborated on, for it would last a lifetime.

And then the old film reel again — moments focusing in and out of themselves, telling me that it happened, but without any real details. Blurred faces, indecipherable lines on papers, notes and notes of money but no real estimate of how much it could be.

Seconds and hours and days and weeks of talking and listening and planning and making and finally,

finally,

It ends. I did it. We did it. Every single person who took part in this whole thing. We saved the world.

I saved the world.

Thinking about it sends a thrill through me. Not the adrenaline that rushes through while skydiving or finishing a hard exam, but a memory of it, flowing through my veins like it happened in an older life. In a sense, it is true, I suppose. Who, or what, I am now, feels a lot different than what I used to be. It feels like the version of me that existed before the dreams ever started.

But however different it was — it was me. I saved the world. The future is peaceful, with a new way of life, imperfect as life always is, but sustainable.

And everything is pretty much perfect (in as much anything is perfect) in front of me right now. Except. Except.

This humongous statue of me. I frown at it.

What an absolute waste of gold. Some part of my brain that is fading tells me that this gold could be put to better uses, it could help sustain the whole species for another 3000 years, and, surely the scientists of this generation would’ve already thought of that, right? Surely the entire educated population would know that, right?

The statue in front of me says apparently not.

I walk forward (ha ha, more walking) until the tiny houses are no longer that tiny, and approach a young boy. It’s a part of the whole dream the future thing — in here, no one can interact with me unless I approach them first. The boy, who is playing around with a ball is obviously startled when I steal it from him. He looks up, blinks twice or thrice at me, who he can suddenly see, before attempting to communicate.

I speak out loud instead, “Hey.”

He blinks again. “Oh. Hi.”

And then, “Mom told me not to speak to strangers.”

And then, eyeing the ball below my foot and the gold statue in the distance, “Are you a stranger? You kind of look like the statue. Are you the person carved into the statue?”

“I’m not,” I reassure him, “I’m his descendant, and, well, came out looking identical.” A smile.

He frowns, “Can I get my ball back?” And when I pass it to him, “Isn’t it illegal to look like your ancestors?”

I pause, caught. I forgot about that.

“I have permission. Special permission from the, uh, guy in the statue himself,” I hasten to explain. “Do you want to play with me for a while?”

After a moment of intensely staring into my eyes, his eyes brighten and he shrugs, apparently willing to let it go. “Sure.”

After passing the ball back and forth a few times, I venture to ask, “So why is it that there’s a giant statue of him there anyway?”

And I realize that doesn’t make much sense, so I continue, “I mean, as far as I know, the dude didn’t seem like he’d encourage such a colossal waste of resources, you know?”

He looks at me quizzically, but replies, “It’s hollow. Quiz Mack and Nack work in there. The gold is to protect them from the atmosphere.” He pauses, stares at me accusingly. “Everyone knows that.”

“Ah, right.” I’m not sure how to get out of this. I recognise the terms Quiz Mack and Nack, realize somewhere in the back of my brain why the particles require specific conditions to function properly and stabilize — but as soon as I try to recollect more, I hit a blank. I’m sure my previous super brain would’ve extracted me out of this situation easy as pie, but right now, I can’t do any better than an awkward, “Uh, yeah, I guess I forgot.”

I scratch the back of my neck.

I didn’t even think the whole thing through in the first place. I’d simply walked up and asked about the statue, without sparing a thought for how unusual it would be at this time. I hadn’t even come to a conclusion that such an obviously advanced race would’ve had some good reason for building a huge gold statue — whether or not it was of me. I wasn’t thinking properly. I’m still not.

While I’m kind of internally panicking at my receding levels of brain activity, and a somewhat smaller crying voice inside my mind that screams, what now, the boy frowns at me again.

Stops the ball under his foot. Looks at me as if he’s trying to gauge my true intentions — which, uh, what?

And then he brightens, as if coming to a realisation — which again, what? Is this kid having a whole epiphany while I’m standing right here in front of him?

And then I decide I’m no one to judge.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” He says, after another moment of staring has passed.

“I’m who?” I ask warily.

“You know,” he gestures to the statue, his hands eager, a boy who has discovered something wondrous, “him.”

And I suddenly wonder if the cat was ever in the bag in the first place.

“Okay,” I say, “You’re right. That’s me.”

“But you died,” he says, not particularly confused, as if probing for information, “Almost a hundred years ago.”

“I did.”

“You’re time traveling.”

I find no reason to deny it. “Yeah, I am. When I dream at night, I come here.” And in case he’s worrying about more time travellers, “Only I can do this, uh, travel-to the-future-in-your-dream thing.”

Now he does look confused. “You don’t have a machine?”

And I’m confused for a moment before I catch on his trail of thought — he thinks, that with my vast intellect (what? I was really smart, okay?) that I built a machine to check on the future, and since I built a machine, which is an easily shareable object (illegal, villainous or otherwise), more people would be able to use it. And since I’m confirming that only I can use it, and discarding the option that I’m powerful enough to keep it a secret, all to myself, there is no ‘machine’. Which is different from what the boy assumed.

And I start, because — for a moment I was able to think, in a crude way of saying it — smart, again. I try again, to summon the brain cells that were undoubtedly present just a moment ago. Nothing.

“Yeah, it’s — it’s a sort of superpowers thing.” Great. I’m stuttering now.

His eyes widen comically. “Like Kenzac?” The ball is forgotten now, and he doesn’t even notice when I start pushing it to and fro between two legs.

“Yeah — yeah, like Kenzac,” I reassure him, never mind I have no idea who or what that is. “Hey kid, uh. Do you mind not telling anyone about this? I’d rather everyone did not know about this”; I gesture between me and him, “encounter, you know?”

And then I stop. It’s time for my eyes to widen comically, except for me, it’s in fear. I look down and yup, my hands are shaking. I’m absolutely terrified, shook, because this — this is not like me at all. I can’t believe the words that just passed out of my mouth, passed out of my mouth.

Whenever I dream the future, I can interact with the people in it. The thing was, every time I woke up, I didn’t forget about my dream, the people in the future did. The next day, when I dreamed again, no one would remember me. And just for a second there, I’d forgotten about that.

One moment I’m thinking smart, and the next I’m an Alzheimer’s patient.

It’s not funny, I tell the part of my mind that’s laughing at this. It’s not. I’m, losing my mind.

And even the boy knows this. I can hear the cogs spinning in his mind as he deduces that there’s something wrong about what I just said.

“You’re not going to… neuralize me? Or wipe my memories? And the surveillance cameras?”

There’s something about ‘neuralize’ that catches my attention, something that reminds me of a movie, one with men in black and monsters, something from a lifetime ago, but I shake it off.

I sigh. “No…” Another sigh. “No, you won’t remember any of this in a few hours.”

I droop, settle down on the ground with a thud.

“Oh,” he says, still standing, looking down at me.

That’s all he says. I get it. Advanced brain he might have, but not having all the pieces of information prevents him from understanding exactly what’s going on.

I look at my hands. Register the callouses. See the wrinkles, notice how they’re still shaking slightly. Therapy. That, that’s a thing, right? Therapists are people, right? People who you can spit out your entire life story too, and they have to listen and reply and try to fix you?

I wonder if I talked to this boy, I’d be able to calm down — never mind he wouldn’t remember this when I wake up.

Wait — he wouldn’t remember this at all in some time. That’s, perfect.

“I,” I start, in true yours truly style, “Am losing my mind.”

He’s still standing. Therapists usually sit down with you, right? “Sit down?” I gesture to the ground.

He does, albeit warily, criss-cross-applesauce. It seems like he’s mustering his courage to do something, and yup, he says, “Go on.”

Grabbing that invitation with both hands, I begin. “I saved the world. I saved you guys. You guys are cool now, right? Everything’s good in the future now?”

At his hesitating nod, I continue. “It wasn’t easy, that much I know. I worked a lot — a lot for this to happen. To change the circumstances, I had to make a lot of sacrifices, do things I only ever dreamed of, I”, and then the old film reel plays again.

Flashes.

A woman, her hands clutching a piece of paper, her gaze boring into me, accusing. Three babies, identical, all covered in a blue blanket, sleeping. Me, a mic in front of my face, a black wall in front, interspersed with flashes of white from an unseeable audience.

I force stop the film reel.

The boy speaks up. “Those… were yours?”

And I’m confused before I realize he’s seen the things I just saw. I nod, a jerky motion. And I know he’s felt the emotions too. The sense of guilt, of determination, of, power.

None of which I feel anymore.

“I did a lot of things. Felt a lot of feelings. But it feels,” I confess to him, “As though it wasn’t really me. It feels as if it was a version of me I no longer am. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m not smart enough to do any of the things I did before. I’m not — me, anymore. I,” I realise, “Am probably not making much sense right now.”

I chuckle. So much for attempting to therapy with a small boy. But, to my surprise, the boy’s eyebrows are furrowed. He’s thinking.

And then he’s speaking.

“So,” he says, “You’re in an unstable state of mind because the abilities you were able to exercise to change the future are deserting you, and you are no longer able to recollect your activities from when you had these powers.”

And that’s… exactly it. He’s speaking in a surprisingly therapist-ey voice. Which is surprising. I am surprised. Did I mention how surprising this is? It’s a pleasant surprise. And it’s a frightening one because once again, I’ve forgotten how smart the people in the future are. They have all the smarts I’ve lost.

The boy, sensing my thoughts, continues, “And you’re scared because this is new, or rather, this is the old you, the person before the dreams started.” And I’m jerking again, because I can feel him digging around in my mind, seeing what I went through, deducing me.

And I let him, because, because it won’t matter in a few hours. Because I am scared and because I don’t know what to do.

I nod. “Yeah. I’m scared because I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s going to happen, what I’m supposed to do anymore now that there’s nothing for me to ensure happens. I mean,” I’m flailing my hands around a little, “I just don’t know, you know? I’m… ordinary now.”

And yeah, he does actually understand me even when I’m sure I’m not making sense.

He’s looking at me, his eyes wide and intending, asking me to realise something. Realize… what?

When I don’t reply, he goes, “So you’re ordinary now. One of us — no superpowers. Or at least,” he amends, “Like any other person from your time. Is that… really a bad thing?”

Isn’t… it? I’m no longer able to do anything influential, anything decisive and impactful. How is that a good thing?

He reads my mind. “It doesn’t have to be a good thing. When you lose something, it is given that you will feel its loss. But what matters is that you understand it is not so a terrible thing that you derail everything to grieve for it.”

I shake my head in non-understanding.

He bites his lip. “I think… that’s it’s fair that you’re like this now.”

And when I almost glare at him, he rushes to continue. “It’s just… you’ve had these powers for so long, right? And you did good with it. You… saved the world! And we,” he gestures to himself and the surroundings, the people who are walking around in the distance, “Remember you for it.” He points to the statue. “We even placed the Quiz Mack in it!” He says, and I… realize exactly what that means.

The greatest scientific achievement till date, harboured in my image.

He goes on, “But the truth is you were the only person on earth who enjoyed so much power — the rest of the people didn’t get any of it. And yes, you did good with your powers, but it doesn’t change the fact that it was unfair on the others.”

And I let that set in. I think of how I believed myself to be all powerful in moments of hubris, how everyone else was inferior. I think of how the power blinded me for a short while, how I wondered if me being chosen meant I was better than the others. But, I’m not. I never was. I got it by chance and I did good by it — and now… it was time to let go.

The boy smiles; he knows I’ve understood. “So now you’re like everyone else, and we are uh, the future, I mean, is saved.”

I smile back at him.

Hop up, and pick the ball in my hands.

I chuck it towards him, and he gets up in time to catch it with a laugh. We pass it around for a while, moving away from each other, throwing it farther and higher each time.

When at last, he catches one long throw, he sets the ball down.

“You’ll be going now, I presume?” His voice reaches across the distance.

I nod. I can’t seem to stop smiling.

“Have fun with the rest of your life, Mister. You don’t need to worry about the world anymore.”

Those are the last words I hear him speak.

I catch his gaze one last time. Think,

Thank you.

He smiles, wide.

And then he’s gone, turning around and running back to his house.

I turn too, and there’s a familiar crack in the space in front of me. I press my fingers to it, inch it open, and –

Familiar blackness.

Except there’s something different this time.

There’s a bright light at the end of the dark. That’s never happened before.

And that’s when I realize. This is the end. I’m never coming back to the future. Because for once, the light is back in the present.

And so, I walk. I walk and I walk and I walk and I walk.

To the future.