I know, curious, isn’t it?
Like someone asking you for the first time to picture what lies beyond our known Universe – POW! I know my childhood brain stuttered and I felt entirely flummoxed by the question, thrown by the possibilities and absolutely shaken that it had not occurred to me to think of it earlier.
I expect you’re wondering who I am?
That’s a good question.
I’m always the person you would least suspect.
My name is Chen. I am a master of time.
One of many, I might add. Although, if it isn’t too presumptuous of me to say, I am one of the best. I don’t doubt that any of us born for such an art can easily understand and execute the mechanics of the job. My specialism, I believe, and what sets me apart, is understanding how it affects humankind, the emotional response, the long-lasting effect of my role. I choose my recipients wisely and with an innate ability to select only the most deserving. A skill no less. But enough about me. You shall see my work for itself as these pages unfold. And please ask yourself, did I choose wisely?
I do hope so.
Maybe you think yourself an ideal candidate for such a gift?
Well, we can talk about that.
So, how is time fluid? I shan’t bore you with the physics, won’t pretend that even I fully understand the quirk that allows for the manipulation of this most fundamental thing. But what if I told you that the creators of time made a small error, an oversight if you will. Has this got your interest? It should. You want to know how? You want to know when this error occurs? Come closer and I shall whisper:
Every single second of every day.
Now to explain it in a way that keeps it simple.
How about this – imagine you’re a bank. A bank with a million accounts and each account has billions and billions of dollars in it. Interest on these accounts fluctuates somewhat – meaning the balance rises and falls. Does that money really exist? Or is it no more than a number on a screen? I guess it only exists when it comes to cashing in. When someone with a big old leather holdall dumps it on the counter and asks for their billions of dollars to take away.
And whilst it might be easy to press a button, call up the balance and arrange for the cash to be deposited in fat bundles of dough, the nickels and dimes that make the interest, the small 0.000000000000000000000000000000001 figure that lurks irritatingly on the bottom line in the echo chamber of fiscal holdings? Well, this little guy, he gets missed; he gets lost.
Big deal!I hear you say, and you’re right.
That 0.000000000000000000000000000000001 is no big deal.
Not when the account you’re emptying has billions of big ones in it! Easier to ignore him, to let him stay quietly nestled, hidden, behind those fat rolls of cash.
But what if the number of accounts where this tiny amount lurks are themselves in the billion? What then? Well then, my friend, it becomes a big deal, a very big deal.
It amounts to something.
This, crudely, and in short, is what happens with time.
In the simplest of terms, what I am talking about are the minutes between the hours. The seconds between the minutes. The milliseconds between the seconds and stitching them together to provide a patch that I, and others like me, can put to good use.
Time that’s unaccounted for, if you will, unallocated. Like the very smallest denomination of currency that people don’t want rattling around in their pocket and leave in a change dish on a grubby countertop. It’s the same. To gather all those tiny coins would make a handsome sum if gathered the world over – can youimagine?
These miniscule fragments of time are of no real interest to anyone apart from maybe those with legal requirement of a data stamp on a transaction, deposition or alibi. Or those with a healthy bet on a nag or any other race where the placing of a nose, arm, foot, hoof or wheel means the difference between going home with a swagger and a tale of winning or heading for the doghouse with a rumble in your empty stomach and a hole in your shoe and pocket.
Yes, those spaces between milliseconds – when ignored – become valuable. I, we, gather them up and string them together, all these little gaps since the dawn of time, enabling us to claw back hours and hours and hours. And that’s precisely what we do.
We bunch them together and when we have enough – roughly twice or three times every few years, give or take – we offer them back, hand them out.
Who do we hand them out to? Anyone who has been nominated, anyone we select.
I mean, not indiscriminately; we don’t just scatter them around for folk to pick up – lying like russet leaves on the pavement after a fall wind, can you imagine? No, we choose wisely.
Ichoose wisely.
Anyone can make a nomination, a plea – as long as they make it in the right place and in the right way – but that’s probably not something you want to think about. Or need to worry about.
