How many men fake their own death, before attempting the real thing? Almost none.
It is not for lack of imagination, but for a lack of will. Once a man gets into this dark place—he doesn’t believe his imagination is real anymore. And this is the greatest shame—the real death. The one to follow, is only a consequence.
Many men want to get away from their problems, but they don’t have the guts to be a man at large—a man on the run.
Many, would not be missed. These are the types who trim their nasty yellow toenails once a month, and eat in bed. Society pities him, if they are even aware of his existence. When he was younger, he felt the pressure to join the rest of the rabble—like the man on the moon, but after years of brushing—when he wanted to—and forgetting to floss—he out-live his usefulness to society, but something else happened that society didn’t plan for—he found bigger things to occupy his mind.
And these bigger things, became him—it is the enlarging of his being, that cannot be rationally justified by his standing in society. It is his unquestioning sense that he is doing the ultimate—even if that is going to the grocery store to buy his dinner. When a man crosses over, into this place, he walks through society and into society, parting the crowd, like the Red Sea.
Gregson felt like a fish that had swallowed two gallons of water. Now—he needed to cough it back up. He swam to shore by the Military-grade Hum-vi, and lay on the muddy rocks like a beached whale.
“Gregson—you have a job to do.”
Cornel Weathers greeted him with a handshake. “We took your psych profile last week—thanks for that. Out of all our applicants—you were the only one with the psychological well-being to withstand Time Travel. Care to explain?”
“If your test says that—it must be true,” Gregson said.
“Don’t get smart with me, son. Even the special forces don’t think the way you do. Why is that?”
“Most people are trained to think, but it’s not really thinking. They think they are doing it the right way, but they have never dared to be wrong. If they attempt their own thinking, eventually—they become comfortable in the dark, and they don’t need the light on. Answers, are less obvious here, than the ones they have been trained to look for.”
“Sweet Jesus, son! What the hell did you just say?”
“Just believe the paperwork—in the end, what’s the purpose of philosophy anyway, accept intellectual masturbation—it doesn’t accomplish anything.”
“But it makes you feel good, am I right?”
“I’m ready to time travel. What’s my mission?”
“The Task Force will brief you when we get there. Until then, hang tough, Gregson, and don’t play with yourself.”