Today is yesterday. Or is it tomorrow? If tomorrow’s today, then when was yesterday? The day before? I feel like I walk in circles just to end up at the beginning. Beginning of what, I couldn’t tell you.
Wait a minute. Who are you? You, the one slouched over, staring? Do you know what day it is? Ah, you’re a quiet one, just like the stars. That’s ok. You can stay and listen.
I live in a tin trailer perched on the pocket of space between the past and the present. Or the present and the future. But not the past and the future. That’s where my Friend lives. They’re my Friend because I visit them every day. Here’s how our conversations go:
Hello. (This is me. I always start.)
Why are you here again? (This is them. Translated, of course. And censored. I don’t want to give a bad impression of them.)
Have you noticed—
Stop asking me. Every goddamn being can see the universe ripping in two. (They usually remind me of everyday events. They’re helpful like that.)
Oh. Okay. Thank you. (Manners are important. My sibling had horrible manners.)
Usually I fly away in my self-driving space mobile. It’s a small vehicle, really just an engine and a seat. But the seat reclines and has a cup holder. Perfect for a can of Guyba juice. Do you not know what that is? Where do you live, in a black hole?
After visiting my Friend, the space mobile takes me to [REDACTED]—hold on. How come you can’t see that? It takes me to [REDACTED]. [REDACTED]. Huh. Never noticed that before. Well, it’s not that important. All you have to know is that pretty places can hide a whole lotta gross. After that, I head back to my tin trailer.
I live alone, but it never feels like it because the stars around me are alive, blinking and waving. I’ve been trying to teach them how to hold a conversation. They’re like you, usually only crackle out one or two words. I think part of the problem is distance. I can only get so close in my heat-resistant suit until I risk incineration. Maybe letter writing would be the better way to go. Anyways, the sparse conversation is why I go over to my Friend’s house. Did I tell you about them? Let me see… Oh yeah. There it is, a few paragraphs back.
I usually speak notes to myself, and SCRIBE prints them out for me, but I can never remember where I put them. I do have theories, though. The space between the past and the present (or the present and the future) is always ravenous. It ate my sibling. It probably eats my notes, too. That’s one thing about living in the universe: there’s always something bigger than you out there. Something waiting with an empty belly and a gaping maw, looking for some papery notes to chew into cud. Luckily, size is flexible. I can always make myself bigger than the biggest thing.
Why are you looking at me like that? Everybody makes themselves bigger at some point. Judging somebody for that is kind of last millennia. When did you say you were from again? No comment, huh? You don’t have to be embarrassed; I’m not one to judge. Just don’t do it again.
Did you know there’s a rip in the universe? It’s getting bigger; I can see it from my tin trailer if I squint. Soon it will reach [REDACTED], and I’ll be out of a job. Which I guess would be a good thing, except I’ve never had another job. I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe planet rehabilitation. I always did have a green thumb.
I hope [REDACTED] will—oh, another one? Just so you know, [REDACTED] the place is different from [REDACTED] the person. Anyways, I hope [REDACTED] gets stuck on the other side of the universe when it rips in two, far out of reach. Even then, I wouldn’t be surprised if I could feel their disappointed gaze across the jagged nothingness. I know I should be thanking [REDACTED] for my job, but I can’t shake the feeling that I hate them for some reason. Maybe it’s because they gave me such a small space mobile.
I do hope me and my Friend get stuck on the same bit of universe. Have I told you about them? They’re my next-door neighbor, who lives in the space between the past and the future. I talk to them every day. That’s what makes them my Friend.
Hold on, this wasn’t what I was talking about. Let me look at my notes… Oh, yeah. [REDACTED]. [REDACTED] created me. I guess I’m smart (or is the word valuable?) sometimes, which is why I go to [REDACTED]. But [REDACTED] is why I have to leave myself notes. It’s not difficult to sit in a self-flying space mobile. But every time I pass [REDACTED], I feel my brain go to jelly a little more. I can’t figure out if it takes a part of me or if I take a part of it. All I know is that [REDACTED] used to be destitute, and I was whole. But now I’m destitute, and it’s whole.
Stop. Stop looking at me, I’m trying to think. There’s something there. Why did that happen? How come [REDACTED] and I are opposites of what we once were? I think… hm.
I’ve almost fallen into the rip in the universe. I lose myself sometimes. But [REDACTED] always finds me. They’re like a parent. They came along right after my sibling was eaten by the space between the past and the present (or the present and the future). Sometimes I wonder what life would be if [REDACTED] hadn’t found me that day. I know, you’re thinking, you live in the space between the past and the present, or the present and the future. Why don’t you just go back and relive it?
Don’t you know how finnicky time is? I could, but… well. I don’t know what would happen. Maybe I wrote a note somewhere, telling me what happens if I do that. Maybe I’ve done it already. Hold on.
Are you there? I have to be quick, [REDACTED] found me, I think my trailer might be bugg—
Today is yesterday, or is it tomorrow? If tomorrow’s today, then when was yesterday? The day before?