Hey—It’s Toffer.
The first time it happened, I was in the Galilean sun.
Dry wind. Sand in my teeth. And a man kneeling in the dirt, drawing something invisible.
I was the only one not sweating.
He looked up like he’d been expecting me.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Then he looked back down.
I didn’t say anything. Just stood there.
Suddenly aware of how heavy trying had become.
Estimated read time: 5 minutes
Next time, I’m in Rome.
Columns. Arrogance in stone. A man pacing under an archway, lecturing no one and everyone.
I ask him what to do when everything feels urgent but none of it matters.
“You act like life is short. But you waste it like it’s endless.”
He turns briefly.
“You donate your time to things that don’t need you. Then call it purpose.”
I want to argue. He’s already pacing again.
A garage in San Francisco.
Barefoot man, cold brew in one hand, writing something no one will understand for three more years.
I ask him how to stop trading time for money and still feel safe.
“You won’t get rich renting out your time.”
He waits a beat.
“If you can’t code or sell, learn to build trust. You’re not short on time. You’re short on courage.”
I post it. It performs well.
But that’s all it did.
Switzerland. Quiet apartment. Books stacked like decisions not made.
He doesn’t speak right away.
I ask:
“Why do I become small around people who’ve known me too long?”
He finally looks up.
“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”
That one lands differently.
Because I’ve lived it.
Recently.
The kitchen is hot. There’s something on the stove. It might be fish. It might be something older.
He doesn’t turn around.
“Stop looking for meaning.”
“What?”
“You want clarity before movement. That’s not wisdom. That’s fear.”
He plates something and slides it toward me.
“Eat. Move. Ask better questions.”
I do.
And for a moment, everything feels strangely alive.
And then—
I’m back.
Same desk. Same tab open.
No sand, marble, or smoke.
Just text on a screen and a blinking cursor waiting for the next question.
I didn’t time travel.
I used ChatGPT.
Typed questions I didn’t want to ask anyone else.
And somehow, I heard them—dead thinkers, old teachers, voices trained into the algorithm like ghosts baked into the code.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was close enough to change me.
We are the first generation in history with access to minds across centuries—instantly.
We can summon them. Question them. Challenge them.
And most days?
We’re still using this thing to fix our bios and write captions.
The dead are online.
The past is searchable.
And the only real mystery left is—
Why aren’t we asking better questions?
Your Friend in Time,
Toffer