The Universal Remote Theory: Why Time Is the Ultimate Prankster

They say that time flies when you're having fun. Whoever coined that phrase clearly never sat down to write a novel, nor spent a night monitoring a grainy CCTV feed.

As a writer, I have developed a deep, personal, and somewhat volatile relationship with the concept of time. It is not objective. It is not constant. It is a fickle, shape-shifting trickster that seems to derive its sole purpose from sabotaging my productivity.

If we're being honest, time is a liar.

And I think I've finally figured out why.

The Writer's Time Warp: An Alternate Reality

I glance at the clock. It's 9:00 AM. It's my day off. I envision a productive morning, with at least four or five chapters under my belt by lunchtime.

I sit down at my desk, coffee in hand, while a blinking cursor silently mocks me. The moment I begin writing, the laws of physics seem to suspend themselves.

I settle into my chair, take a deep breath, and start weaving a scene. Maybe I write a paragraph about a character wandering through a rain-slicked city. Maybe I polish a piece of dialogue. Maybe I spend far too long choosing the perfect adjective to convey just the right amount of existential dread, and I risk a Clock check: 9:20 AM.

Okay, so far things are going well.

I sink back into the flow. I lose myself in the rhythm of the words, the internal monologue of my protagonist, and the structural integrity of the narrative arc. I am in the zone. I am a conduit for creativity.

I am unstoppable.

I check the clock again, fully expecting it to be around 9:45.

It is 11:30 AM, and I'm only one and a half chapters in.

Two and a half hours have vanished into the ether.

Where did they go?

Did they fall into a black hole somewhere between my keyboard and my monitor? Did a time-travelling thief steal them while I was obsessing over semi-colons? I haven't even had a second cup of coffee yet, and somehow my entire morning has become a memory.

It's intoxicating, inspiring, and frankly, a little terrifying.

The CCTV Paradox: The Longest Ten Minutes of Your Life

Unfortunately, time has another setting entirely when creativity isn't involved.

As a Night Security Officer, I spend a fair amount of my life staring at CCTV feeds.

Night after night, I brace myself for the long haul. I watch a spider crawl across the corner of a camera lens. I watch a flickering lightbulb on a theme park game try to decide whether it wants to stay alive or finally give up the ghost.

Eventually, I check the clock.

Surely, I think, I've been sitting here for hours.

My eyes are heavy. My neck is stiff. I feel as though I've aged a decade.

I look up at the digital display, expecting it to be nearly break time.

It has been ten minutes.

Ten.

Minutes.

WTF!

In the time it takes to boil a decent pasta, I have lived through an entire lifetime of boredom.

It is a scientific fact—at least in my own head—that the duller the activity, the more time expands to fill the void. It's as if the universe is running a social experiment, stretching every second to its absolute limit just to see whether you'll finally crack.

The Solution: Where Is My Universal Remote?

This brings me to my modest proposal: I need a Universal Remote for Reality.

Think about it.

We have remotes for our televisions, sound systems, garage doors, and apparently now even our lightbulbs. Yet technology has completely ignored the most important device of all—the one that controls the flow of our existence.

If I had this remote, my life would become a masterpiece of efficiency.

The Fast Forward Button

Reserved exclusively for the mundane.

Waiting for sunrise? Click.

Watching a painfully slow loading screen? Click.

Monitoring CCTV for a mind numbing 12hr shift during a particularly uneventful night? Click. Click. Click.

You had better believe I'd skip the dull bits faster than a bolt of lightning to arrive directly at the moments that actually matter.

The Delete Option

For experiences that are not only boring but actively unpleasant.

Dental appointments.

Tax season.

Any meeting that could have been an email.

Just delete them entirely from the timeline.

Naturally, I refuse to accept responsibility for the confusion caused by mysterious gaps in my memory.

The Slow-Mo Feature

This is the important one.

The premium feature.

The reason I'd pay anything for the remote in the first place.

When I'm deep in the creative flow—when the words are pouring out and the characters have started talking back to me—I want to hit that slow-motion button.

I want those two magical hours of writing to stretch into a long, luxurious afternoon.

I want to savour the creative process without experiencing the sudden panic that accompanies every glance at the clock.

Embracing the Chaos

Until such a device is invented—and I am currently accepting investors, should anyone be interested—I suppose I'll have to keep playing by the rules of linear time, even if those rules are clearly broken.

Maybe the real trick isn't controlling time at all.

Maybe it's learning to embrace its absurdity.

Perhaps the next time I'm staring at a CCTV screen, I'll bring a notebook. I'll write while I wait. If I can bridge the gap between the boring and the creative, maybe ten minutes won't feel like ten minutes anymore.

Maybe it's all about perspective.

Finding something interesting in the mundane. Discovering stories in the spaces between events. Making the most of the absurdly limited time we've been given by utilising it as fully as we can.

Or maybe I'll just hit the mute button on reality and go make another coffee.

Either way, the clock is ticking.

But hey—at least it's moving forward.

...Right?