You can’t go back in time because that would create a paradox. It self-contradicts. It cancels out. Except, isn’t life itself a paradox? If death inevitably swallows us all (for the sake of simplicity we will leave religion out of this), how can I even be conscious at this moment? When I die, and I will, my thoughts will vanish. My five year old self only exists because I am here to remember her.
If I live on to ninety, but not ninety-one, then ninety year old me and my ninety year old dreams are non-existent. And if all these years eventually collapse into one blurry memory that flickers and dims out of existence, then I am not here. I am already dead.
Existence is a paradox. So are people.
People are predictable. They are easy to read. You learn a bit about someone from the things they say, even more from what they don’t. They’ll tell you one thing but their smile is slanted. They’ll smile at you but their gaze is razor sharp.
Except they’re also complicated. I am an introvert as well as an extrovert. I have anxiety but I love public speaking. I am quite the cynic but I believe in magic. I like coffee and tea. I like cats and dogs. I am A but also B. I am Me.
Humanity is a rubix cube writers cannot put down.
Writers are nothing but people-watchers (who were given a pair of funky shades at birth so they see the world in an odd way). They notice every detail, and when they find that each detail contradicts the previous, their wonky little brains shudders and jerks and spits it all out in coded form. Humanity in metaphors. The truth through fiction.
That’s why they say books are humanity in print. Each author captures and presents the world from their eyes. Stephen King wrote that fiction is the truth within the lie. It really is.