Railroad Zen

Sitting with Hui Tzu under a willow tree in the artificial island of his garden, meditating on the pathways between delusions of waking and dreaming, Chuang Tzu was struck by the realization that they might be engineers driving a train between Rock Island and Blue Island. It was their habit to while away hours in pleasant philosophical discussions, and at this moment they were occupied with the nature of time, trying to understand in particular whether awareness of its passage was an inherent property of consciousness, and whether its apparent directionality was an illusion that could be dispensed with. Their exchanges took the form of thought experiments, as rapidly and briefly stated as they could manage.

“If we could reverse time,” said Hui, “we would experience our memories as premonitions, and vice versa.”

“If time were circular,” Chuang proposed, “memory and premonition would be identical, regardless of its direction.”

“By the way,” Hui said, interrupting the discussion, “how far are we from our destination?”

“Which way are we going?” asked Chuang. There was a pause while Hui considered his answer.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We are free.”

“Yes, my brother,” Chuang agreed cheerfully. “Now, if we could just get off these tracks.…”