The Secret of Time

I was eighteen when I first realised how little I understood about how Time works. As children we are taught to read it, as if it is a concept easily grasped and rooted in fact. They say it’s entirely structured, moving at a steady pace. A force that cannot be slowed or sped to suit our needs. Instead, Time continues on its everlasting journey at a stubborn pace, only ever moving forward. But I now know this could not be further from the truth.

On that warm summer afternoon in 2008, each second had felt as if it were stretched into a lifetime.

As I walked out of my school building the world around me seemed to slow, as if Time were struggling to trudge its way through a thick mud of despair and anticipation, which climbed up its body and pulled it further in. With each step I took towards my mother’s car, it seemed to sink deeper and deeper. The A level results certificates clutched in my hands had somehow warped into iron shackles, snaking their way around Time’s wrists, as I desperately pulled on the chains and willed it to turn back and give me another chance.

However, this was one thing that it could not do. Time had the ability to slow down to the point that it almost stood still, or run so fast that you’d miss it if you blinked. It had the power to heal or to destroy, and it taught the most valuable of lessons. But it would not turn back, no matter how much you beg or plead or will it to.

This was one of two things that happened that summer which changed the course of my life entirely. The other happened a week later, as I sat opposite my mother at the dining table and looked down at the small brown parcel she had slid across to me.

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

“What is it?” I replied, confused. I definitely had not done anything that deserved a gift.

“It’s supposed to be a surprise. That’s the point of the wrapping paper, dummy.” My mother rolled her eyes. “Now open it!”

I peeled back the brown parchment and was surprised to find a small black leather-bound book inside. I ran my fingers across the rough cover and gently skimmed over the blank, slightly yellowing pages.

“Do you like it?” My mother seemed worried by my silence. “It was your grandfather’s. He had it his whole life but never wrote in it. When he gave it to me I asked him why he still hadn’t written in it, and he told me this book was destined for greatness, that only a great mind would be able to fill its pages.” My mother paused, still waiting for my response.

“I love it.” I finally replied. At first glance the book appeared to be rather unremarkable, but as I looked at it closely and felt its weight in my hands, something about it was mesmerizing to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and the air felt almost electric.

“Well good, I’m glad you like it. I don’t really believe in all that destiny stuff, but in a weird way I never felt like this book was meant for me, so I never wrote in it either. Maybe you’re the great mind it’s been waiting for.” She laughed lightly before pausing again for a moment, considering her next words carefully. “Honey, I know you’re disappointed with your A level results, but don’t let that define you. I know you have a bright future ahead of you, regardless of what those universities have to say.”

She squeezed my hand sympathetically, and I just thanked her again, wanting to avoid any more conversation about my failed exams.

That night I sat at my desk and thumbed through those pages again. I wondered if I would also one day pass this book onto my children. Surely, a book which has waited so many years for the right person could wait a few more.

But in the next few moments something overcame me, and my body seemed to move on its own. I remembered my brief encounter with Time in front of my school gates, how I had stolen from it and somehow filled each minute with more than sixty seconds. My thoughts flowed freely out of my mind as if I had no control over them, travelling down my arm and dancing with the ink in my pen, before finally settling on the pages. When I finished writing it was almost morning, and I knew this night had changed my life.

Over the next few years I became somewhat obsessed with Time. I had learned it’s secret, it had been deceiving us all along. It was no stoic, unforgiving fact of life. Time was fluid, and bittersweet. It was a vast ocean which ebbed and flowed differently for each person still floating at the surface, until inevitably we'd find ourselves pulled under, lost in its depth.

By understanding the secret of Time I had learned how to manipulate it. Science fiction would have you believe I was a whimsical doctor with a teleporting phone box, or a teenage boy who almost wreaks havoc upon the future by altering events in the past. But in reality what I had discovered was an art form, one which took years to perfect. It was like learning to swim, but instead of a calm swimming pool you get thrown into a vast river and have to somehow learn to swim upstream.

I recorded every trial and error in my little black book, which became my most valuable possession, one I would carry with me wherever I went.

So you can understand why I felt as though my heart had fallen out of my chest on the evening of July the 9th, 2016. As I sat on the bus and desperately searched through my bag for my precious book, I came to the terrible realisation that I had accidently submitted that to my boss, as opposed to the notes he had asked me to write up in a deceitfully similar black notebook.

By the time I had raced back to the Physics Building on campus it was already too late. I walked into the office to find my boss, Edmund, halfway through reading my life’s work with a pile of papers next to him on which he was hurriedly scribbling calculations. I cleared my throat to announce my presence, and he finally looked up at me with raised eyebrows.

“Is this real?” He questioned me incredulously.

I twiddled my thumbs nervously, unsure how to respond. “Look, I’m not crazy, okay? I swear-”

“On the contrary, I think you’re quite brilliant. I’ve been studying physics for the past 40 years and I have never come across a theory like this. I expected to at least find fault in the application, but the calculations all check out. So, I have to ask again, is this real? Does it work?” I’ll never forget the way his eyes shone excitedly at this newfound discovery, which lit up a fire in me. Finally, I had somebody to share this secret with!

That evening Edmund and I discussed the secrets of my book for hours, and Time slipped past us without being noticed. As we approached the early hours of the morning Edmund made me an offer I could only have dreamed of until then.

“I think we should publish your research. Of course, there is a lot of work that still needs to be done, we must test your theory and find evidence first if we want to be taken seriously.” He paused to think for a moment before asking, “Do you think $20,000 would be enough to finish your research?”

“Yeah, if only money grew on trees, eh?” I joked, knowing my current salary was just about enough for me to be able to pay my rent.

“Well, you may not be able to pick if off a tree, but you could perhaps get it from the University. We usually only reserve this for our most gifted students or research staff, but I could try and convince the University to offer you a research grant. That is, if you want to go ahead with this research?”

From that moment to the present day everything has felt like a blur. As I stand at the entrance of the Stockholm Concert Hall, waiting to go in and accept a Nobel Prize in Physics, there is only one question on my mind.

What would my life have been like if I never got that little black book?