I once inhabited the future, to the extent that returning to the present felt like a flashback.
I would come to, and find complex tasks done, mileage accomplished.
I was second-perfect, finances immaculate, everything was where I needed it.
My hand on the handle, at the required time.
I had no idea how it happened.
A pseudo-false awakening.
I was grateful to the guy in the past who’d apparently got me here.
It seemed he’d accomplished a shit ton of other stuff I didn’t care about.
It was just to keep the world happy.
I have, I am…a predecessor.
Pilot lights stay on, in a partitioned mind.
And maybe you’re not a mass of contradictions.
Maybe you’re just different people, with what only feels like a whole other life history to explain.
With one possible biography of temporary personality trait aggregates to choose.
I sometimes think ghosts could plausibly be people from the present not the past.
Is it possible that my drifting mind has a presence somewhere out there?
A paradox of agoraphobia. No wonder they talk about angels.
I resurface in a hotel pool.
It’s full of effectively dead people, and a little bastard called Henry.
Time for a change of scene.