Personal Narrative: A Time Traveler

I am a time traveler. I desperately wish I was able to take credit for all the journeys I have experienced, but I cannot. The time machines I use are not the futuristic ones seen in movies or television programs. These portals were perfected long before a majority of past generations were even alive.

Each time machine takes me to a different place, from magical castles to the next state over. Oftentimes, my name, my appearance, and my family members change. It is not uncommon for my life to stop right in the middle of high-intensity situation and to be frozen in time until a new time machine is created, waiting to be purchased.

I once entered one a time machine at noon, went on a month long conquest, only to discover I was only gone for four hours. I physically never left my tangerine beanbag chair in the corner of my sun-lit room, but my mind traveled to a wondrous land that is not found on any map.

I am a bibliophile in every way possible. I could read any book, no matter how old or what genre. I am proudly guilty of buying new literature with money I planned to spend elsewhere. It is almost as if I cannot help myself. As I pass by bookstores, I hold myself culpable of going rubbernecked. There is this a universal seduction between an avid reader and unowned titles. It is as if the fascination of books is innate, much like sleeping or breathing.

One of the most amazing aspects of book-collecting is the solar system I am able create just through the placement of novels on my bookshelf. A bunch of worlds come together to create a magnificent galaxy, with a never ending array of places to explore. The most amazing part is that you can visit hundreds of these world without ever having to actually