So I am reading a book titled ‘The Time Traveller’
A short story based novel where the protagonist, set up as the antagonist in the story, tells of his invention. I suppose he circles the world faster than the world turns and can from that be either in the future or the past. He has a disbelief in his observations of the future.
He forgets his Kodak, barely has a writing utensil, a pack of matches about to run out. He finds himself at least 8 millennia in the future from ours. The inhabitants are dressed in well-to-do garments in all luxury behaving in a form that behoves they know nothing of labour. He’s astonished at their graceful disposition towards him. His time machine beside him.
He wanders abound. He takes in light and ideas of their coming in his own imagination. He presupposes this is the golden age from their behaviour. Not a slight towards him, only a overwhelmingly strong hospitality towards this unknown guest. He thinks this is the future of people achieving enlightenment. Only after receiving nothing but admiration, and a hint of these people possess the mentality of four year olds does he begin to question. Where do these garments get manufactured? You exhibit no markings of people who labour.
He in his own naivety supposes nothing. This must still be the golden age. They are fearful of night, of even matches at night. He finds his time machine missing. He senses an underbelly of life at night. He sees a figure moving in shadow, he strikes a match, a copper enterprise belonging to where his time machine was.
In disparage, in fright, questions his humble hosts. They understand little of his language; he must learn theirs. They hide from the accusations, acting like they fear something beneath, he feels either lack of basic understanding or they fear something irrational. He supposes the golden age could bring about securities and a sanctity of life that disallows questions (and ability to).
If this is Utopia who am I to bring about my own fear?. Did I not fight humanity in my time and in that trajectory want something different? What is this anxiety I feel to get out? Am I this absurd?
I have not reached the climax of the book. I am about one chapter away. I can not say he is absurd or not, all I can say when this story was given birth it was after he reached his point of living eight days in one with a gin and tonic telling his story to disbelievers.
I sometimes feel like that. I have invented almost nothing… other than maybe myself?