My Experience in the Wormhole

Both time and space are pockmarked with deep, dark holes. Just like you can get lost in a place-- in an unfamiliar neighborhood or a dark forest-- you can get lost in time.

Being lost means you're somewhere you don't want to be on the way to somewhere you do want to be. This might seem tricky, given that time doesn't really have any twists or turns, but we must not be fooled by that appearance of stability.

Under stress, time warps and bends like cheap plywood. In fact, one can sail smoothly through Sunday and then suddenly arrive at Thursday, as I did, with little concrete recollection of the journey between.

The wormhole is a limitless spiral of no specific length or girth, colorless but not quite odorless, a product of a wave of pressure from the rear. It's punctuated by inconsistent sunsets and a provocative tango between lateness and earliness.

Others in the vortex are spinning too; occasionally our paths converge. We acknowledge our common plight with the firm nod of two speed freaks passing on a highway.

It's funny, though; when everything gets back to normal you're stunned and shivering among people that spent that time at normal speed.