Ask Your Question today
I love time travel. I obsess over it all the time and I have a strong passion for all things related... is it normal to love it this much?
I have this thought that time travel exists in the future (of course!) but they either had to make it in a way that wouldn't disturb the past by visiting it, or that's just how it happens to be; so they are just invisible to us somehow. Could be people from the future watching you at any moment... then when i notice very subtle mysterious things, i thought maybe they are allowed to mess with that stuff because it's so small that people would just brush it off as nothing, i wondered if it's the time travelers messing with me... ps. i'm not crazy, it was just a theory... haha
Dude I know how time travel works, the ideologies and revelations of such an act sends shivers down my spine. You don't want to truly understand it. It brings freedom of mind with the right understanding, insanity with misunderstanding. Life isn't real yo, just a mirror man. That's all you need know, time travel is easy as hell. Understanding what it means on the other hand, all so very simple if you do not add meaning. You can't change anything, so stop adding imperatives into your delusions. What is, simply is. Life is so much more complex then what people perceive ideologies of dimensions are merely the tipping point. Take the dimensional models and apply them on a biological/sociological level in perspective of our universe being at microscopic scale. Now imagine what is macroscopic, what is parallel and cross corresponding. Go back to the micro imagine something simple like 3D on that scale, now you need missing theorems. Easy to see though, there just so much I know of many, and of none. The level I've reached is so beyond comprehension it would take maybe years to put into words, this not an avaricious transcription of grandeur merely an outlook of understanding. I admittedly looking at my notes am at a lost the whole system is very convoluted, and the word system is just another branch of madness, every word, every breath of phonetic, every gesture of art is pure insanity. We are but simple bubbles, the breathe of drown children awaiting to awake. Forever forgetting the immeasurable day of yesterday.