How would you capture the world if you find yourself in 1990 with all the current memories, but in the body of the child that you once were?



— — —



I have four.



I just lost my wife and children, and now I am the most depressed and smart kindergarten in the world. My parents don’t understand what’s going on, and I don’t tell them anything because it’s crazy. I am not taken to a psychiatrist: there is no psychiatrist in parental insurance, we can not pay a doctor from our own pocket either.



I have behavioral problems at school. My extraordinary intelligence is obvious to anyone, but I am so bored to do homework that instead I come up with algebraic problems and solve them myself. I write code in programming languages that don’t exist yet. I don't have access to the computer, although I constantly swear it.



The ratings are getting worse and worse, and I am often called to the director for how I behave in class. But it’s America, so every year I’m transferred to the next class.



In the fourth grade, the teacher, noticing how much I know, begins to give me high school books. A good year.



Next year, everything returns to normal, and I am crushed.



When I was in eighth grade, a psychiatrist finally appeared in my mom’s insurance. I come to him for the first time. I have been in the opposite direction for ten years. Now I don’t feel the bitterness of loss, but the boredom of an adult living in a child’s body is just as deadly.



You promise not to tell my parents, teachers or the police.



He agrees.



I’m telling him that my consciousness has shifted from 2018, that now I should be 41, that I’ve had a wife and children, and that I’ve been somehow trying to cope with all this since I hit four. He does not believe me. I show him the program code written in languages that are not yet available. I solve algebraic problems and equations in polar coordinates—nothing of this I need to understand by age.



He thinks I’m a wanderkind. And that I am crazy.



I say that George Bush Jr. will win the presidential election. He thinks I’m just ticking my finger into the sky. I am a gun. There is only one year until 9/11.



Now he thinks I’m dangerous. I plan for 9/11.



I’m trying to surrender back and say it’s all al Qaeda. He asks if al-Qaeda is talking to me.



Talking to him is meaningless.



I was transferred to neuroleptics. I feel nothing, I think badly, I don’t want anything. But I’m no longer in “depression,” so the therapy is recognized as successful. My psychiatrist checked me regularly.



9 of 11. I and my parents are being dragged to meet with a psychiatrist, a police officer and two men in costumes. Parents do not understand what is happening. They try to talk to me, but I refuse. They have all of my internet traffic – some places inappropriate, but nothing incriminating. I demand that they stop eating my pills, they agree.



I am under house arrest with a bracelet on my feet. In school and home. I do not care. I have no friends, even my friends from my previous lives are just children.



Another meeting in a month. How did I know about 9/11? I demand a lawyer. They don’t give me it. I shake my shoulders and keep silent.



There will be a lawyer.



I tell the lawyer everything, he doesn’t believe me, I demand another.



I tell the new lawyer everything, he doesn’t believe me. I demand another.



I tell the new lawyer everything, she doesn’t believe me. But she will protect me on the basis that I have told the truth. I agree.



We tell them nothing. Home arrest is a violation of my rights, and the Patriot Act, which allows them to keep me locked on the slightest suspicion, is still, in essence, not adopted. The lawyer threatens to go to journalists.



They are falling.



In the first year of high school, my scores are terrible. I understand that they need to be pulled up if I want to get to the same college where I find my wife, so I start doing twice as hard. I am going from double to excellent. The teachers were confused, but a stone fell from their hearts.



The last year. I only submit papers to one college. My parents thought I was flying out of the coil. But the plan is this: I am going to the Honors Program, to the same Honors Program, where I met my wife almost thirty years ago (in my personal chronology), I live in the same communion as she, I am working in the same engineering team as she was when we started dating.



Only I do not do. My scores are too low because I failed my first year in high school. The college is the same, but I cannot reproduce the circumstances of our meeting.



But there is hope, even if it is small. I will go to college. I know in which clubs she goes, with whom she’s friends. I will be where she is.



I’ve been around with her for months, working on inviting her to a date. How can you call on a date someone you lived with for 12 years and who you lost 14 years ago and who doesn’t remember you at all? How do you approach her with all that baggage that she has no idea about?



But finally I do it. I call her on a date.



She says “No.”



But how, how. The world around me is collapsing. Is she my wife, does she not understand? I crash, it scares her, and she runs away. I run after her, but she has time to press the alarm button on campus.



Of course, my story of “madness” immediately binds me. Next month I will be in psychiatry.



One day, two men in costumes visit me again. They say they can pull me out. But I have to tell them about 9/11. These are the same FBR sheep I saw a hundred years ago. And I surrender. I tell them everything.



They pull me out of the psychic. Now I have a good home in some ass of the world, a good computer, a great internet. And I have to keep telling them about the future.



In my free time I work as a consultant. FBR pays all my expenses, so such earnings are my pocket money. On January 2, 2009, I set up a computer with a powerful GPU, and the next day I start mining bitcoins.



I fucking much. Much more than anyone could expect from mining in the early days of Bitcoin. As a result, Bitcoin doesn’t take off because everyone else with their ordinary computers has no point in fighting with me. The cryptocurrency collapses, and has not reached the first peak.



After two years, the FBR comes back to me again, they need information about the future again. But I had nothing left, I already told them everything I remembered.



I am being thrown out of the house, all the computers they bought me are being taken away. All the computers I’ve assembled myself are picking up too—these are, you see, substantive evidence.



I have nothing more. I am wandering. From one small town to another, I move on fast trails.



One day I fall asleep on a shop in the park.



Not to wake up the next morning.