I traveled for thirty-five minutes. Physically, I have gone nowhere, the stationary bike fulfilling its half of the bargain. Remaining connected to the sensory world around me I find my mind wandering, and then wondering. Without forward progress, I have traveled only through time. It is now, but later than when I started.

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The slats of the wood blinds strain the afternoon sun into a zebra pattern on the floor. A single strand of spider’s silk bridges the gap between the leaf of a small potted plant and the ceiling above. It glistens in the sun and draws my attention. Why do I see this intricate detail now?

My vision begins to blur, the intention of my focus becoming too narrow. A second glint catches my gaze and I watch a minute fleck of matter, its origin or composition unknown, slowly descend toward the floor. And then another speck drifts into view. This one larger, but still incredibly small. How can see such minuscule particles with my aging vision?

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Eyes watering from intense focusing, I close them and exhale a fatigued breath. Background music comes to the forefront. Dust specks gone, individual notes take their place. I hear each one, understand their placement, feel their message. Smaller than the flecks of matter, inside they are mountains of sound, yet soft on my soul.

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Traveling through self, time spirals to the edge of life, mine or another’s. I’m not sure there is a difference or that it matters.

But I am there.

I feel it.

I see it.

I hear it.

And I don’t want to return.

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