The contraption is ostentatious. Parts are everywhere, and thing-a-ma-bobs and whatchamacallits surround. What's this? “What's that, and how does this work?” become the questions of the day. “What happens if I do this, or what happens if I go here?” adds to the excitement. There's no telling what that button does or what arises if it's turned this way or that. What in the world is it? The Time Machine – and the reader is driving it, or is he, or she?
When did the ride commence anyway, and who decided when it would start? Did any reader or writer for that matter determine when this ride called life would begin? Was there some personal forethought behind the idea of one's existence that caused a cataclysmic union between his or her parents that resulted in birth? Was there a non-visible influence from which one decided there should be a man child or a woman child born to enter the earthly stage? Whichever and whatever the predetermined or non-predetermined consciousness, the fact remains that the reader and writer do exist in this time continuum.
Now, what about the exit? When does this time machine venture end, and when does one exit the stage? How will that exit be, and who determines that? Certainly not the one who spent his time “assisting” any longer, for his ride is over, and to end the ride oneself is never so good. Although there are many methods for which the time machine ride ends, no one really knows when it shall be or what shall be the cause of it, or do they?
The key, rather than ponder what or when, is to have full understanding that the predetermined existence was not the writer's nor the reader's choice in the first place, nor shall it be his or her choice at the time when the time machine shuts down and the ride ends. Ride with the wisdom that one greater initiated this time machine, and until the ride is over. Ride with all the might possible.
Until tomorrow...Why Say More?
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