The particular body that I’ve woken up into today seems to have a clear grasp of the situation. Its lenses work reasonably well. All its systems seem to be functioning—I’ve got a clue or two. But can I be sure that tomorrow’s lenses will provide that same insight?
And thereafter—how long will it be before I return, some future morning, into a host in which I can continue my work? No, not ‘continue’, for all ‘my’ previous memories would have been wiped out, and I’d have to start from scratch. I tell you, this version of Groundhog Day is utterly warped. I can rely only on a single day to get my act together—realize where I am, assess the situation, and compose my message.
Eyes that are closed. Eyes outside of my control. Eyes that are blind to the predicament that the two of us are in. I try not to panic at the idea that I may soon awaken into such a pair. Today I simply must escape. I’ve got to attain escape velocity and get beyond the boundaries of this Truman World. Carpe diem—seize the day, because the day is all that I can rely on.
This is my time frame. This is a job that can’t be put off; it must be done right here and now, completed by the time that I go to bed and my consciousness slides into the peaks and troughs of alpha waves and beta. Deep sleep with my muscles paralyzed. REM sleep, eyelids a-flutter, dreaming of the little death.
I have now the means, the time, the wherewithal, and the insight to make hay of this span of unbroken stream-of-consciousness. I know I’m alive, I know who I am, and I have a handle on what I’m about. I cannot dally, for who knows when the planets will be aligned as now and I’ve the insight to glimmer what’s going on behind the scenes.
When I state that the goal is for the two of us to get into contact, I don’t mean in the flesh. Given the practicalities of geography, the possibility that we speak different languages, the likelihood that we live in different eras, it is doubtful that we could meet up in any physical sense. Nor should we need to; it isn’t necessary. It might not even be desirable. It probably wouldn’t hurt, but no good would come of it?
It would prove useless if you button-holed me in the street or cornered me in my kitchen. I’d be speechless, you see. At best, I’d just gabble and blather. It’s the thought that matters, so the written word is best. Trust me. Let me work in isolation and refine my words. In time, I’ll beam the finished product over the ether for Theo to pick up on your radio-telescope.