I am almost certain that when time is victorious, I will be forced to stand at that isolated fork in the road. This will be a strange place that will seem new but feel familiar like I have seen the same set staged in old Kurosawa films. My body will lie on a hospital bed in an unmanned room or on the pavement of a grimy street corner during a thanksgiving parade. I will rest under snowflake-confetti and bloated character balloons. Maybe I will be slouched at the kitchen table with my relinquished head left down to marinate in a full bowl of lukewarm Campbell’s Classic Chicken Noodle Soup. My soul, however, will post at the intersecting streets of destiny and judgment. At the crossroads I will see frames from my peculiar past flashing interactive cinescapes that document the highlighted events from activities I formerly lived. I will stand and stare down a narrow tunnel with an odd-little-bright-light guiding me to salvation. Memories will broadcast on the walls of the tunnel like the television screens depicted from Bradbury novels.
My flashback will undoubtedly project blue bars indicating the time I spent in front of render screens posting many a project. Perhaps I’ll see the sleepless nights I chose to stay awake to dedicate countless hours for shameless self-promotion on corporate sites like Myspace, Facebook and Twitter. I will see scattered cursors from endless script edits and constant email threads setting up tomorrow’s events. I’ll think, (while floating down the corridor) I could have commandeered a ship and become an experimental pirate captain that lead a crew to a life of exploration through vast oceans to discover brilliant civilizations. Instead of the boundless seconds I racked up sitting in front of a glowing computer monitor I could have been a musician. A magnificent minstrel that manifested mood-moving music built to ignite a revolution. I would have been a great cowboy with a nice set of spurs.
I imagine at that time I would start to squint from the incandescent beams that are now distractingly powerful and much closer. The beams would create some sort of organic light show produced by an unorthodox arithmetic from another world. I would say something; I would have to say something, I would feel obligated to deliver a concluding testament even if no one was there to listen. I would say something for my conscious to record, I would say.
“I created, you know? You bet your bottom dollar I did, take a look for yourself.” I would point at the televised walls passing me by as I gravitated down the tunnel.
“All those flashes from computers build up to something more powerful than the pasty monitor tan. Thank god!” I would pause and nervously look for omnipotent spectators that would object to my irresponsible use of their name and than I would continue.
“I created messages printed to thin strips of film, video tape; burned thoughts to DVD format. I uploaded opinions to the web, projected portraits onto theater screens, broadcast statements and backed it all up to terabyte sized hard drives. Not only did I create messages but I also bundled up those forms of media and stuffed them in a little glass bottle manufactured by a local soda company and tossed it. I threw that bottle into a body of water for the sea to take!” At this point my chest would start to swell with pride and a side of hysteria from the closing and now uncomfortably hot light.
“I detached myself from that dedicated bottle while it fought its way across the atlas and you know what? My message connected. My messages changed someone. I should have, would have, could have, but most importantly, I did. So go ahead and take me, it’s time to start living.” Then I would die.