Introduction to Time Travel and Happiness
I discovered a time machine on top of my wardrobe two nights ago.
An object capable of tearing through the gorgeous veil of our space-time continuum and reaching deep into the dark bowels of what once was.
It was a small yet powerful object. A magical box made of part carton and part collective memories of the past.
What are the odds the answer to thousands of years of scientific and philosophical discussions would be sitting unbothered, soaking up dust in the form of a Nike shoebox on my wardrobe?
Einstein. Hawkings and Newton must look up at me from their eternal damnation with rage and disgust. No way the theories and postulations that sent them to the burning lake are being rendered obsolete and invalid by a discovery made by a 300-level Unilag student that has been on strike for the most part of his university education. Sigh. E be things. E dey happen.
If you thought my discovery of the time machine was insane, wait until you find out that after much study of the alien object, it turns out the magic box of dreams and collective memories is actually an invention of mine.
Apparently, during one of my brief spells in 2020 of exhibiting otherworldly wisdom, I must have unknowingly cracked one of the greatest paradoxes and mysteries of the human species.
If you have kissed me, hugged me, shook my hands or had any other form of contact with me between 2020 and now, I believe the best thing I can do for you is to strongly advise you against taking your bath again till you inevitably perish because I might just be the closest you’ll ever get to meeting a participant in a major scientific revolution. A luxury not up to 90% of humans that have existed can boast of having.
Now you might probably be thinking: Isn’t this inaction already futile? Haven’t you already bathed a million times since you last touched me?
Firstly yes, you may be right, but even if you’re right, you’re still wrong; why? Because I’m a potential Nobel Laureate winner and you’re not, so, therefore, I know better. Secondly, don’t you know that men and women of my nature often leave celestial residue on everything they come in contact with? Do you really think that your fake joy soap can possibly wash it off just like that? Sure, if you continue violently scrubbing your skin every day like you’ve been doing, you’ll eventually wash the cosmic greatness off you. However, if you stop taking your bath today, you just might be able to retain some of that immaculate genius residue on you, especially if we met recently or I was in you.
I got transported to the past two nights ago.
I opened the little magic box and witnessed as my soul and consciousness slowly seeped out of me and became one with the fullness and nothingness of the air. Transporting me to easier and harder times. Taking me by the hand and walking me through the drama of the past. Walking me through the things that preceded what is. In a way, it was like tracing my steps back in time and reliving every movie, every book, every ted talk, almost everything.
Dear reader, you too can build a time machine.
I know the task sounds daunting, and you’re not sure if your feeble mind is capable of such an amazing feat, and I agree but fear not; the job is not herculean as it sounds.
The first thing you’ll need is a small box made from rare earth elements, but if you can’t get that, I’m sure a small shoe box will suffice. Next, get a marker capable of writing legibly on the sands of time, but if you don’t find one, a regular permanent marker should suffice. Write the year on the box boldly and firmly, and prepare your mind, body, soul and spirit as the hard part commences. You have to document everything you think and feel or as much as you can about anything and everything.
Write down the mundane things, take the most random pictures and record the most random videos. Try your best to ensure the writings are on an actual piece of paper and not online; your handwriting is a necessary part of the creation process. Print the pictures no matter how ugly they are, send all the videos to a memory card or flash drive and keep them in the box.
Do that consistently for as long as you can until you feel like you’ve done enough. Then comes the most crucial component in building a time machine: dump it somewhere random but safe and try your best to erase its existence from your memory.
There you have it, kids, that’s how to build a time machine and cement your consciousness into the wet shape-shifting clay of time and eternity.
Inside my NIKE box, I found all my old poems, the first pieces of writing I ever wrote. The great lyrics, the bad ones and the embarrassingly shitty ones. The courage in those words reminded me of a time when writing was an escape, a thrilling ecstasy. A time when I used to write about anything and everything when I wasn’t scared of words or my ability to make them cut. I bled from them, and that was the most important thing.
Unfortunately, things are not the same now. Writing is not as straightforward or half as fun. Which is a little weird because you’d think the more you do something, the easier it’ll get. Turns out that’s not the case, at least for me now.
Right now, it seems like the growth of that overly critical temperamental child in my head is directly proportional to my growth as a person and the development of my craft. Every time I take a scoop of hot amala, mix it with my egusi soup and swallow it alongside a small pomo or fish, that little bastard is taking its share too.
My postulation is that the better one gets at anything, the greater the weight on their shoulders. No matter how hard you try, you can’t outrun or outgrow the voice in your head. In the end, the best you can do for yourself is toget acquainted with it at the very least.
I read those writings and remembered a time when the thought that my writing wasn’t any good didn’t even cross my mind, a time when the voice in my head was still at its infancy stage, a time when the thought of being shitty wasn’t even a possibility I entertained.
Maybe the happiest man in the village is truly the mad man, the idiot. Perhaps the secret to true happiness is genuine blindness. Maybe happiness is merely an ignorant adolescent’s emotional state; to enjoy it, you need to let go and be willing to be an ignorant adolescent at that moment.
Alas, Ladies and Gents!!!!!
I fear I have done it again. I fear I have just cracked another paradox that philosophers and scientists have been battling for ages.
I have deciphered the code to living a truly “HAPPY” life. Found a pathway for those whose most significant goal in life is to be HAPPY. Brace yourselves guys, because I’m about to hit you with a million jolts of wisdom.
HOW TO LIVE A PERFECT AND HAPPY LIFE
The theory on how to live a perfect and happy life was postulated by the young sage himself, Peter Pan, the king of lost boys, and it reads thus:
“To live a happy and perfect life, you must never grow.”
It’s that simple and short. If you want to live a happy life without the self-inflicted pain that constitutes existence, then the only way to go about it is to remain a child forever.
If you’re a photographer, stop trying to improve your craft. If you’re a writer, stop reading; if you’re going to read, make sure you don’t read anything of quality or substance. If you’re a designer, stop taking courses and watching tutorial videos.
Never forget, aspiration is the death of happiness, and delayed gratification is nothing but a tool of oppressive capitalist systems that goes against the very nature of us human beings: to sit back, eat cakes and busy ourselves with the re-population of the species.
Don’t look up to anyone or compare yourself with anyone in your field or anyone of worth. Simply put your head down and face your own lane; you’re not in competition with anybody but yourself.
Though it might appear that they have it better than you, trust me, you don’t know what they go through behind closed doors. Not all that glitters is gold, especially if it looks very much like a 15-carat bar of gold.
I promise you, on the inside, they are rife with anxiety, unhealthy levels of stress and constantly feel like imposters.
In the end, I’m sure you’ll be better off without all these vain materialistic achievements you can’t take to your grave.
In the end, when you’re on your deathbed, you’ll look back on the beautiful life you’ve lived, crack a smile and say to yourself Yes, I lived a good life. I can’t say I achieved many things, but at least I can say I did this.
I achieved the single most crucial thing there is to existence, happiness.
Oh, I was happy.
Oh yes, I was happy.
