Timeminders

You know that feeling when one thought opens a door, leading into a maze of rooms and side doors until you’re in an echo chamber, sifting through the muck of time and brain matter? Kind of like when you do crack.

Your mind spins and whines like tangled-up bedsheets in a washing machine. This is that moment.

I am spiralling and stop to catch my breath. The roar and splash of the waves bring me back to my skin, and I suck in a lungful of brine and sea salt particles. I am the Ocean itself, a raging mass of energy that smashes its way through life. And I see reason.

I am not my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second as if playing hide and seek. My brain begs for logic, but then a chink of light pierces through the blackness, startling me. I fling my eyes open. Horror blooms in my gut. One shudder collapses into another until I am shaking, pulse throbbing in my throat.

The flap of paper dangles from my oversized coat pocket. I read the note earlier when I scrambled for a bit of material to discard my stale chewing gum.

This is my gift to you.

No sign-off, no explanation. At first, I thought it was Aleksa playing tricks on me. He likes to pull stunts like this every now and again when he smokes too much weed and has an infinite supply of time to waste.

But this is no prank. It can’t be.

A dinosaur-shaped egg, the color of egg yolk, floats above the crest of waves. My gift glows and hisses, or maybe that’s my mind adding layers of context. I jerk my head left and right. The beach is empty, save for my ragged breath. None of this matters. None of this is real.

But then, a wail cuts through the waves. It’s as if baby tarantulas crawl down my spine.

“Don’t look away, human.”

My own voice bounces back at me, sending fresh icy shivers down to my toes.

What the actual?

It speaks in my voice. That can’t be right. Instinct kicks in, screaming for me to move, run, hide, yell out, but the egg has other plans for me. It keeps me glued to the sand, mute as a glass doll, unable to do anything but bear witness to what’s unfolding.

This isn’t real. I squeeze my eyes shut again, but my eyelids disobey. It’s as if something—or someone—is controlling my every move.

I must bear witness.

“What the fuck?” I call out in my mind, thoughts cloudy from fear.

“We came when we heard what you were doing.”

If I could move muscle and bone, I would step closer. But as it turns out, I am held hostage by an oval-shaped object, so I stand still as a corpse.

“Who are you?” I call out in my mind.

“We are timeminders.”

Huh?

“That’s right.” The egg laughs back at me. “You are wasting time. You whine and complain and spend all your days in your head thinking about things that will never happen.”

“No, I don’t!” I bite back at my voice.

The egg cackles.

“When was the last time you saw a sunset?”

I pause, racing through my catalogue of memories, but only come back with a vague glimmer of an overpriced beachside watery cocktail I consumed a few months back in Ibiza. Even then, I was focused on capturing the perfect selfie because the afternoon light was waning, and I had to get the shading just right. I am always waiting for the right moment, but nothing arrives. Could it be that the egg is right?

I do the one thing I always do when I’m wrong. I change the subject.

“Who sent you?” I throw the question into the gust of wind, and the egg tilts to the left as if absorbing the impact of my words.

“We are connected, wall to wall. You can’t see the line, but we can. And we see everything.”

“That sounds like some Sci-Fi voodoo crap.”

The egg ignores me. “Don’t act like time is infinite. It’s not. Remember that Before I Die list?”

Another shudder envelops me. The egg has been watching my every move. Studying me studiously behind a looking glass I can’t reach or see.

Every year, right before Christmas, I produce my sodden Before I Die List and tack on a bunch of goals that never get crossed off. The list takes up a page and a half now. Corners of the paper have curled and smudged against the stain of time, and yet here I am, two days before Christmas, talking to a floating egg that appears to be time itself.

I hug myself into my arms and nod.

“Go write that book. Backpack across Nepal. Wake up for that sunrise. Quit gluten. Read 52 books. And get off Instagram.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“You humans are all the same. You act like your life is permanent. But it’s not. It can be over in a flash.”

“Ok, now you are starting to scare me.”

“We have to go. What you do with this information is entirely up to you. Goodbye now.”

And just as suddenly, the egg arrives, it evaporates into thin air.

I am left with the perfect Christmas gift. Time itself to do as I please. I contemplate my next move. I could dive into the icy cold water and battle the Atlantic currents in the hopes that the egg would come to my salvation again and explain itself. I could call my estranged mum and sob into the phone like a dazed and confused five-year-old. Or. I could keep walking down this beach and feel the sea air bite my cheeks and caress my insides. But that involves doing.

It's as if my knees cave at that realization. I slide down until I am sitting on the moist sand, legs tucked underneath me. From some dark corner of my soul, a scream erupts. I scream and scream, letting my gut-filled cries get snuffed out by the bite of wind.

An elastic band snaps back into place. I am me again. Whole and pure, and alive. Calmy, I get up and walk on, gliding down the beach. For the first time, my thoughts slow to the beat of my heart.