If I was a genius scientist, I’d find a way to prove that you can’t “time” – time.
Time – as in seconds and minutes, hours and days – goes slower or faster depending on the, um, time.
Almost everyone who exists on this planet knows that fact, but for some reason, the supposedly brilliant scientists throughout the world have not been able to show evidence of its validity.
Here’s my scientific proof.
While I worked on a chapter of my book Twin Desires, seconds flew by as Sandra and Blakes’s dilemma unfolded:
As he peered across the deserted street, a movement caught his eye. There, by the ornamental ivy that flanked the front door. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. He leaned forward slightly, all his senses on alert. He was fully awake now. Staring hard into the pitch black, he was sure he saw something move.
Blake froze. Only his eyes moved to glance up at the tops of the trees. He ruled out wind off the bay. The night was still and shrouded in fog. The muffled, mournful sound of a foghorn floated over the water.
Blake flipped off the interior light before opening the car door. Closing it noiselessly, he scanned the exterior of the building. Sandra’s front door was open. Shit. His instincts were right.
Racing across the street in a crouch to keep a low profile, Blake then pressed himself tightly against the wall of the building, making sure no one was around. He entered cautiously. Sandra’s apartment was in total darkness. He cursed the pale blue shirt he was wearing. Blake paused for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to his new surroundings. Keeping his back to the wall, he moved carefully to his right and instantly regretted it.
He’d stepped on something soft, and loud. An animal screeched, and Blake’s pulse jumped. A cat scampered off in painful protest. Damn.
A dark figure sprinted soundlessly across the room.
The characters helped my fingers fly off the keypad, so I ignored a few lunchtime hunger pangs, and only stopped because the doorbell rang for a postal delivery. I checked the clock then – what seemed like 15 1/2 minutes of writing a few chapters showed up as 3 hours, 20 minutes in “real” time.
Instead, time somehow reasserts itself, wrangles itself around me, wrinkles itself, as Madeleine L’Engle explains in her famous Y.A. book, A Wrinkle in Time.
Last summer, my family and I rented a place at the N.J. shore for a week. Turns out that we got gypped, because all of us swore we’d only been there for 3 1/2 days before it was time to pack up and go home. That feeling was not just a misconception. Perhaps if just one or two of us felt that way, we could ignore the strange time differential. But all 12 of us experienced the time shift; ergo, we all witnessed the scientific secret that…
… time wrinkled while we stayed in that sunny happy rental on Central Avenue.
But when I returned to work the next week, don’t you know that five days became eight, just like that?
Here’s hoping that the upcoming summer doesn’t get too wrinkled in your world.