It's 22:53

It's 22:53. I’m in my own home. In 2026. At specific coordinates in space and time. Here, now. In the three dimensions. Plus time, of course. I pour the hot water into the herbal teas, absent-mindedly. I look out of the window and, in that very same instant, but a little farther away in the three dimensions, I see my neighbour parking his camper van in the garage, after a month-long journey. He smiles, satisfied.

And I decide to move, but only through the fourth dimension. I close my eyes and see the moment when I first looked out of this window, twenty years ago now, not even imagining that this house would one day become my home. I see the same tree, but smell different scents and hear different sounds.

I open my eyes, then close them again, this time moving through the three dimensions. I see the house where I grew up, with my parents already in bed, asleep. They will get up very early, because by now they have been used to it for years.

I remain there and move backwards through the fourth dimension. I see myself. I see my birthday party, with my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my friends. All my grandparents, smiling and a little bored. It’s 22:53, but many years ago, and I’m tired, yet full of energy. Life.

I close my eyes again and go even farther back. It’s 22:53 and there is silence. I’m in my bed, and my young mother, her eyes shining, sings me my lullaby, while I struggle to fall asleep, but smile with my eyes closed.

I open my eyes, pick up the herbal teas and turn off the light. It’s 22:55. Time to go back to bed and finish watching the video I left halfway through, while my wife has already fallen asleep.

Here, now.