"When I am dead mourn me not. Your deeds will bring enough sorrow for all."

Contrary to what the title would suggest: this is not Margaret. I am not X. And neither are you. You've never met X. You never will. X does not exist. In the same way that Hitler, Stalin, Hannibal, Napoleon, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Descartes, Fermat, Hawking, Newton, Picasso, Escher and Sally Campbell do not exist. All of the heroes and villains, the conquerors and thinkers, all of them are dead in a way that real men cannot be.

It is true that by forgetting the past we are doomed to repeat it. But when we remember it incorrectly, placing titans of our own making at its cornerstones we are equally doomed.

We are all the machine in its purest form, each of us a microcosm of ourselves. Looking within is the same as looking without. And all of the rhetorical nonsense is true. There are absolutes but we can't find them. God plays dice with his universe and throws them where they cannot be seen. Time is irrelevant, All that was and will be simply is, and is, and the veil between the two is so thin that it doesn't matter.

The heroes of our past and present are just as imaginary as those of our future. Only in our minds are they better anchored than we are.

I see two great houses. John Galt and Tyler Durden. No two more opposite than they. The great Hero of Ayn Rand sees perfection in free market; a self governing system in which greed burns away the chaff leaving the golden perfect of profit in its wake. Palahniuk preaches destruction and oblivion the necessity for man to revert to his former self. Yet both use the same tactics, accomplish the same ends. Neither exists.

The world isn't changed by heroes. The world isn't shaped by singular events. We all play the part we play. The script is finished. Each of us has already had our say. What we will do, we have done. There is nothing else. Nothing else. Nothing else.

People say you can't change the past, but they all freely admit that the past shapes our future. If someone said that the right side of a line determined the left, but that the left was unaffected by the right they'd be called mad. On a long enough line, all points are the middle.

The question isn't whether one can travel through time. The question is why would one bother. The line is set from where it doesn't begin to where it doesn't end. And any points that move along the line in any direction can do nothing to change it as they are fixed upon the line.

It's easy to move through the line. And it is all too easy to become engrossed in the fact that movement in either direction is possible, and forget that because it is possible it can make no difference.

A book bearing the same name as this was written with the intention of showing how to become a hero how to change the past how to defeat the machine. The line is the machine, and we are bound to it and constrained by it. If we defeat the machine we defeat ourselves.

Heroes and singularities have no place on the line. The line doesn't bend or fray at its edges. It merely stretches out across infinity, daring any to challenge its immensity. The line weaves no webs of deceit. Frank Herbert's web of prescience is a literary illusion. The line is as honest as fear. It reveals itself in the truth of the actions of all.

Margaret is dead and buried, and the line doesn't mourn her. Any action measure against the line is insignificant. The line has its own shape, and that shape is true and just. Who can stand before the line and not tremble.

Numbers have no meaning on the line. Compared to infinity all things truly are equal. No one's deeds outweigh another's. No one is smarter, cleverer, or more privileged. From God's point of view all is in equilibrium.

It has been written that if you control your imagination you control the past. What if having control of the past doesn't change anything?