Although my mother ultimately named me after Fallon Carrington, my father wanted to name me “Cassandra.” I never knew why, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to believe that name was always moored to me in some unshakable way. Aristotle would have called the highest good eudaimonia—a flourishing life built on living well in virtue. Yet what use is virtue if your warnings, care, and insight are perpetually dismissed? What does flourishing mean when one is condemned, like Cassandra, to foresee harm and still watch it unfold? Like the Cassandra of Greek myth, I often foresee what’s coming—whether in people, patterns, or outcomes—and yet I’m repeatedly ignored, dismissed, or doubted until the truth finally crashes down. My warnings, insights, even my potential seem to go unheard until it’s too late—until damage is done, or an opportunity has already passed me by. It feels less like a coincidence and more like a curse: to carry the weight of knowing and still be left screaming into the void.
But I don’t want to be right. I want to be believed; to be trusted when I speak, when I love, when I see. I’ve spent much of my life watching my truths unfold in slow motion—whether about people I cared for, institutions I challenged, or griefs I saw coming—and still felt powerless to stop them. Not because I lacked insight on how, but because no one listened. I see so much, and yet so often, I’m left to carry the burden of hindsight in advance.
Which is why I think Eobard Thawne, the Reverse Flash, is such a haunting and relatable figure to me too. Like him, I’m forever chasing recognition and purpose that always seem just out of reach no matter how much I give, how hard I try, or how ahead of the curve I am. Eobard is brilliant, devoted, and driven to shape history; but he remains in Barry’s [The Flash] shadow. He calls himself the “Reverse Flash” as a deliberate act of inversion. It’s a way to define himself not by who he is, but by who he opposes. Unable to become the hero he once idolized, he resigns himself to be an antithesis, ensuring his existence is forever tethered to—and in defiance of—Barry’s legacy.
However, the Flash mantle relentlessly binds both hero and rogue to time as they face destinies they can’t ever outrun. The Stoics taught that suffering is inevitable, but that meaning comes from how we respond to it. Acceptance, not control, was their counsel. Barry and Eobard, in different ways, reject this: one trying to rewrite loss, the other to weaponize it. Their tragedies illuminate the Stoic warning; that to live outside the bounds of acceptance is to lose one’s integrity to grief. Haunted by loss, their responses diverge in moral weight and intent. You can see this in The Flashpoint Paradox when Barry time travels to save his mother’s life. In doing so, he inadvertently dooms the world to Armageddon in disrupting a foundational trauma that shaped him as much as the entire timeline’s moral and causal structure. His mother’s death is asserted to be a fixed point, so altering it causes catastrophic ripple effects. This error of judgement isn’t just about chronology, but the priority of personal longing over collective good; and the universe punishes imbalance. Barry’s intervention is born from love—desperate, naïve, and deeply human—but it comes from a desire to reverse grief rather than suffer it. So, Flashpoint remains a cautionary tale about how life itself loses integrity when love turns to control and trauma is erased rather than accepted. In contrast, Eobard doesn’t want to undo pain; he wants to overwrite it with proof of his own worth, by forcing the world to recognize him, even through fear. Whereas Barry collapses the timeline in a misguided attempt to heal, Eobard weaponizes time to assert value he was long denied. One acts out of heartbreak, the other out of exile; but both, in their own way, embody the tragedy of being unable to live with the past as it is.
There’s also the shared torment of temporal consciousness in the burden of knowing too much, too soon and being powerless to alter what others won’t admit. All of us are aware of loss and endings. We understand that nothing lasts: people die and systems fail—except Eobard actually exists within and outside of time, cursed to observe and intervene without ever fully belonging to any moment. Discursively, I find myself hovering in that liminal state through anticipating grief before others, mourning in advance, living in the ache of what’s inevitable. Honestly, it’s isolating to be temporally fluent in a world that insists on denial—and in that isolation, Eobard’s obsession starts to look like a response to being perpetually unheard, alone, outside of the life he wanted. Even I can’t help thinking of a life where my vision is honoured, my love is enough, and my presence isn’t taken for granted. It’s what I’ve always longed for—and still long for.
This longing to be seen, to matter, to have one’s insight acknowledged instead of discarded, is why stories like Injustice resonate with me on a deeper level. The emotional architecture of that universe is built on precisely the kind of fracture I’ve lived with; where the grief of not being believed, not being enough, reshapes everything. Eobard Thawne fits into that world, brilliance embittered by exclusion, echoing Cassandra’s curse through temporal obsession. And in a post-Regime landscape like Injustice 2 (2017) where heroes and villains must navigate the wreckage of choices born from loss, figures like them don’t feel far-fetched; they feel inevitable. It’s a world where the ache of unheeded warnings, fractured identity, and disillusionment are less backstory than foundation.
Injustice 2 takes place after Superman’s (George Newbern) tyrannical Regime has fallen and he’s been imprisoned for his crimes. Batman (Kevin Conroy) now leads the effort to rebuild a more just world, one not ruled by fear or authoritarian control. However, this fragile peace is threatened by the arrival of Brainiac (Jeffrey Combs), a powerful alien AI who views Earth as another collectible specimen. His invasion forces former enemies to become uneasy allies, including Batman, Supergirl (Laura Bailey), and former Regime members: Aquaman (Phil LaMarr), Cyborg (Khary Payton), Flash (Taliesin Jaffe), Green Lantern (Steve Blum), Robin (Scott Porter), and Wonder Woman (Susan Eisenberg) amongst variants of Black Canary (Vanessa Marshall) and Green Arrow (Alan Tudyk). While Gorilla Grodd (Charles Halford) creates The Society, a cohort of supervillains who desire post-Regime world domination—Bane (Fred Tatasciore), Captain Cold (C. Thomas Howell), Catwoman (Grey Griffin) Cheetah (Erica Luttrell), Deadshot (Matthew Mercer), Poison Ivy (Tasia Valenza), Reverse Flash (Liam O’Brien), and the Scarecrow (Robert Englund)—whom aid Brainiac, shared enmity inclines several to become comrades: Atrocitus (Ike Amadi), Black Adam (Joey Naber), Blue Beetle (Antony Del Rio), Dr. Fate (David Sobolov), Firestorm (Ogie Banks), Harley Quinn (Tara Strong), and Swamp Thing (also Fred Tatasciore).
As Brainiac’s threat worsens, the central moral conflict resurfaces: whether Earth can be saved through restraint and cooperation or through absolute control. The climax pits Batman and Superman against each other once again—this time over whether to kill Brainiac and seize control of his technology. The game ends with two possible outcomes: either Batman defeats Superman and banishes him to the Phantom Zone before establishing a new Justice League; or Superman kills Brainiac and takes over his ship, becoming an unstoppable force of surveillance and dominance. In both endings, the core theme remains: can peace exist without control, or does safety require tyranny?
The question isn’t just about who is right or wrong, but about what grief does to people who were never heard in time. Whether it’s Eobard rewriting history to prove he matters or Superman crossing lines to reclaim what he lost, the common thread is longing: to undo loss, to prevent it, to matter enough that the world bends rather than breaks. And in that longing, I ask myself all the time: is it selfish to want happiness? To hold on to someone I love so fiercely that I would risk anything not to lose them? Injustice, Flashpoint, tensions between Batman and Superman aren’t just epics of power and consequence; they’re elegies for those of us who couldn’t protect what we loved, and how we carry that failure like a scar across time.
Which brings me to [consider] joy. Even when I find it, I can’t help but fear it and brace for the cost; and that fear [that joy must come at a cost] humanizes those whose narratives confront the same impossible bargains, mapping emotional truths onto cosmic scales where the stakes reflect the quiet devastations of real life. Pain can’t be overpowered, only lived with. We can’t control time, and we can’t undo pain by trying to reverse it. Though fantastical, these stories—of heroes, villains, powers, myths—concern raw truths of life such as grief, longing, injustice, and the [aching] need to be seen; truths that reality admits hardly, if ever. I relate to every character in Injustice: standing in the wreckage of what I couldn’t protect, heart split open, aching to turn back time and save the ones I can’t bear to live without. And every time I try to hold the world together with sheer will, I learn again that grief isn’t something I can undo. It’s the weight I carry, etched into every act of love. And love—however doomed—makes that burden heavier.
And worth carrying.
Trauma studies remind us that suffering does not ennoble on its own; it scars, fragments, and repeats. When unhealed, grief can harden into cruelty or self-destruction—exactly as Injustice Superman shows us. My own life, too, speaks to this: the ache of unheeded warnings, of carrying loss in advance, is isolating. It teaches me not that pain is necessary for joy, but that unattended pain corrodes our capacity to live fully. The reason I can be so readily overlooked, overworked, and discarded in academia—without hesitation for the inequity or indignity of it—is because of the depth and breadth of exploitation that has been permitted to flourish under the guise of “oversight.” There is no version of the institution where those with privilege and power would ever be treated with such casual expendability. Evil isn’t a matter of brilliance. Evil is successful because it doesn’t abide by the laws of ethics or morality. So long as inequity is allowed to masquerade as meritocracy—where my labour can be consumed without recognition, my scholarship undervalued, my survival tethered to the whims of gatekeepers—this cycle of disposability will persist; and the complacency of liberals within is indicative of the deep moral vacuum and loss of a moral compass which defines most gainfully employed academics.
To me, the core moral lesson of Injustice 2—and the broader Injustice narrative—is that power without hope becomes tyranny, and pain without healing becomes cruelty; how suffering can be transfigured into control, vengeance, and domination. Abolitionist ethics, as Ruth Wilson Gilmore and others insist, refuse the claim that cruelty is necessary to preserve safety. They imagine justice not through domination but through care, interdependence, and the refusal to replicate harm. In this sense, Batman’s refusal to let despair dictate his ethics resonates with abolitionist thought: even in a world that insists on punishment, one can resist by choosing restraint and hope. While overcoming Brainiac drives a good portion of the narrative, Superman continues to serve as an antagonist. I appreciate his unbearable grief, but that still doesn’t merit the ways in which he anchors himself in conquest and retribution. He stops believing in others, distrusting that restraint or mercy have value—which likens him to the villainy he purports to oppose. Superman crosses the line from survival into control, from mourning into moral decay. In contrast, Batman—despite his own trauma—chooses discipline, restraint, and faith in the possibility of change. He’s not a naïve optimist, but someone who understands that justice without hope is hollow, and hope without justice is fragile.
The Injustice story insists that the greatest strength is not found in overwhelming force, but in refusing to let despair dictate your ethics. In a world that constantly rewards cruelty, moral clarity becomes as much resistance as grace. And for those of us living in a world where cruelty often wins, this contrast reminds us that the fight for goodness may be lonely, costly, and slow; but it is still the only fight worth having.
♫ Title song reference – “Miss My Woe” by Gucci Mane
Sometime in the early 90s, my maternal grandmother was terminally diagnosed with colorectal cancer. She would undergo renowned Ayurvedic and First Nations herbalism treatments in addition to a mindful exercise regimen, which would mark her passing almost a decade later [as opposed to the mere months doctors expected]. Of course, I was too young to understand this prognosis. All I could fathom was the anguish of bereavement upon her loss. This was corroborated by several accounts of others who continue to affirm that I was never really the same after that loss—which would be punctuated by the relocation of my father, provinces away from me, shortly thereafter.
Back then, I think, was when I started to second-guess the value of my emotions. What was the point of so much, if any sadness? Moreover, these early losses inform the way I view impermanence. These voids—especially since I couldn’t understand them, even though I felt their weight—naturally inclined me to undermine feelings. Specifically, investing in feelings that only lead to pain. This would also mark when, how, and why I felt an aversion to change because these transitions left me unmoored. These days, I find myself impassive as I sit with my grief rather than run from it. Happiness, I’ve accepted, isn’t found by trying to alter the past or secure a perfect future; it comes from being present. Love and loss are intertwined. Neither the acquisition nor pursuit of happiness concerns chasing time but accepting its passage, embracing moments that are ours to cherish.
This is something I remind myself after the terminal prognosis of my cat, Edith, my maternal grandmother’s namesake. Over time, I realized that oversight defined a lot of how I bereave the departed. I agonize over not being able to see or care for Edith again. I want to protect and comfort her, even beyond this life. It’s a love that transcends time, and I recognize this bond isn’t easily broken by life or death. I like to think that my love for her will always be a part of her journey, here and beyond. However, I can’t help but feel sadder as I grow more self-aware and attuned to the impermanence around me. I’m sure my neurodivergence (amongst a plethora of adversities) factored into how hopeless I’ve felt and the [very rational] conclusion that engaging with the world emotively can only lead to further loss. But no one can refute the impermanence of life.
Maybe that’s why, try as I might, I can’t shake my fascination with The Flash (2023).
Unlike the DC Universe Animated Original, Justice League: The Flashpoint Paradox (2013), a curious live-action interpretation marked the latest foray by the DC Extended Universe in The Flash (2023). Both films are adaptations of Flashpoint, a 2011 DC Comics crossover wherein Barry Allen (Ezra Miller) travels back in time to prevent the murder of his mother, Nora (Maribel Verdú), which inadvertently creates an alternate reality on the brink of apocalypse. But The Flash sees Barry sent further back in time where he’s knocked into an alternate timeline by another time-traveller. Therein, he encounters—and coexists with—a younger, happier version of himself (also played by Miller) prior to the trauma that would’ve come to affect most of his life. This duality adds a layer of introspection as Barry not only confronts the consequences of his time-altering actions, but also the person he could’ve been had iniquity not defined him. Yet, his time travel creates an alternate reality where superheroes are missing or changed, and Earth is threatened by General Zod’s (Michael Shannon, reprising his role from Man of Steel) invasion. He teams up with his younger self and the timeline’s Batman (Michael Keaton) and Supergirl (Sasha Calle) in an attempt to save the timeline by defeating Zod.
Central to the narrative is retrocausality, the concept that future events can influence the past, as Barry realizes his intervention causes disastrous changes to the timeline which affect both past and present realities. Another key narrative element here is fate, the idea that certain events are predetermined and unavoidable, when Barry recognizes that death—the deaths of his family, friends, and other allies—mark fixed points in time that can’t be changed. Thus, all is for naught as the heroes face Zod and his fellow Kryptonians. The Barrys find themselves woefully outmatched. Their attempts to engineer a favourable outcome are futile because despite any of their interventions, Batman and Supergirl invariably perish. The end of this world is assured as Zod deploys his World Engine to terraform Earth and repurpose the planet as a new Krypton.
Eventually, Barry faces the Dark Flash (also played by Miller)—an older, battle-scarred version of his alternate self; uniquely conceived for this film—who has been obsessively trying to “fix” this doomed timeline, running through time for an eternity as he attempts to engineer an outcome where everyone lives. He admits to pushing Barry into this timeline to ensure his own existence wherein he [Barry’s alternate self] could acquire his powers. This relates to earlier in the film when Barry reveals to his longtime crush—Iris West (Kiersey Clemons)—that his resolve to work in forensics was driven by a desire to correct systemic failures which belabour judicial and evidentiary oversights, as he also seeks to exonerate his father—Henry (Ron Livingston)—who was wrongfully convicted of Nora’s murder. Since Nora never dies in this reality, alternate Barry lacks the driving force to be a forensic chemist—and so, never interns at the forensics lab wherein he would’ve been struck by lightning and doused in chemicals to gain his powers. This necessitates the Dark Flash knocking original Barry into this timeline whereupon he, in an effort to preserve his future and ensure he can go home [to his own timeline], guides his alternate self to orchestrate this accident. The Dark Flash muses about how close he is to “fixing” everything, having run back in time over and over again to orchestrate an outcome in which Nora, Batman, and Supergirl are alive.
But his efforts wreak havoc across the multiverse.
We see glimpses of alternate worlds and peoples. There’s one where Christopher Reeve and Helen Starr observe as Superman and Supergirl; another where George Reeve is a Superman who oversees Jay Garrick; and one where Adam West’s Batman chases a Joker played by Cesar Romero, among others. All of them degrade as the Dark Flash’s interventions compromise the cosmic order. His interference doesn’t just destabilize the multiverse. It degrades time itself. His obsessive attempts to alter events also render his very own reality unsustainable. On principle, the implosion of other worlds won’t spare this one. Still, the Dark Flash insists that he can “fix” things, then moves to kill Barry lest he jeopardize this objective—but is undone when he mortally wounds the alternate Barry who dives between them. Accepting this tragic outcome, Barry departs to undo his initial alteration, understanding that restoring the original timeline is the only way to prevent further chaos and preserve cosmic order.
In contrast to The Flashpoint Paradox which emphasizes alterity and irrevocable outcomes, The Flash contends more with reflection and nostalgia. It allows Barry to witness the innocence and joy of his younger self, which underscores a sense of loss that transcends what devastation ensues after his Nora dies. Both films share a central outcome in that Barry ultimately realizes he must undo what he has wrought in attempting to save his mother, as his intervention in the timeline creates a catastrophic ripple effect that throws the multiverse into chaos that leads the alternate realities to the brink of destruction. And while his intentions were rooted in love and grief, he comes to understand that altering the past to prevent an outcome—however tragic—causes more harm than good. The alternate timelines, whether in the form of a world plunged into war in The Flashpoint Paradox or the fractured reality in The Flash, demonstrate the dangers of tampering with time; evincing the consequences of Barry’s actions, forcing him to confront and accept a bitter truth: to restore balance and preserve the greater good, he must return the timeline to its original state, accepting the pain and loss he once sought to avoid. This realization is key in both iterations, reinforcing the [relatively quantum] principle that the past cannot be rewritten without destabilizing the present and future.
In many ways, The Flash personifies a conscious effort to live within the constraints of time, when one realizes that resisting change, tirelessly trying to ‘fix’ things, can be futile. We can recognize that retrograde efforts to ‘fix’ things create more harm than good, so we reconcile what we’ve suffered as we come to terms with the need to move forward. Our misfortunes are fundamental to who, how, and what we become. Which is why the Bruce Wayne in Barry’s original timeline (Ben Affleck) is nonplussed by the prospects of time travel. Quite accurately, he posits that any temporal interference could yield dire outcomes and notes how our adversities shape us. “These scars we have make us who we are,” he says. “We’re not meant to go back and fix them.” We lose out if we fixate on the past in ways that prevent meaningful engagement with the present or future.
For all the disfavour elicited by The Flash—concerning Miller’s exploits offscreen and the studio’s commercial failure—I truly appreciate this film, in that it captures the ethos of the sacred speedster which proves immensely resonant as time goes by. It’s the personal tension between holding onto the past and learning to let go for a greater good beyond oneself, even if it means losing the opportunity to relive a life with neither error nor pain. This alone marks The Flash enterprise as an admirable cinematic feat that explores memory, identity, and the inescapable nature of time. Moreover, The Flash uniquely depicts time travel to evoke an ontological terror that is premised on our own associations with other characters. For example, Michael Keaton reprises his role as Batman; or rather, a Batman from an alternate timeline which conjures nostalgia. Somewhat ironically, as he opines on retrocausality, his presence reinforces the idea that time is fluid and splintered as his familiar likeness is at odds with what we expect. This prompts yet another unnerving realization: any- and everyone, no matter how cherished or iconic, can be altered beyond recognition or repair, by time—which punctuates the chaos that Barry has unleashed. The familiar becomes unfamiliar, which characterizes an existential horror wherein once reliable constructs of identity, memory, and continuity are eroded. As Barry encounters this alternate Keaton-Batman, the film taps into our associations with Keaton’s original 1989 portrayal, but now filtered through the lens of a world that’s doomed and unrecognizable. Time travel doesn’t just threaten cosmic order. It fractures the very essence of the lives, stories, and characters we hold dear.
Which made me think of how Martin Tropp (1990) muses upon what makes for good horror: to “construct a fictional edifice of fear and deconstruct it simultaneously, dissipating terror in the act of creating it” (p. 5). He suggests that horror builds a sense of fear while also providing a way to dismantle or understand it through narrative mechanisms—resolution, confrontation, or explanation—that allow us [the audience] to process and dispel that fear. In The Flash, we see this when Barry sputteringly grapples with the fact that his attempts to change the past bear massive consequences; the terror of unraveling reality itself. And as Barry realizes the futility of his actions and works to restore the timeline, this horror is deconstructed. We, like Barry, come to terms with the inevitability of loss and the cosmic balance, which transforms the initial fear [of losing loved ones and failure] into a shared understanding for the dangers of trying to rewrite history. I can further appreciate this in knowing how the ignoble powers that be, initiate and sustain the historical and ongoing erasure of marginalized positionalities; how the disparities which define us are assured in perpetuity.
Even now, I remember seeing The Flash on the big screen. It was during a time when everything felt hollow, when the anxious pulse of my own vulnerability pressed in on me. Grief over my brother’s death, the ache of feeling expendable, and the dismal horizon of my future—no gainful employment, no promise, no purpose—hung over me. As always, I sought movies as a means to stave off despair. I tried to lose myself in a blur of images, desperate for some reprieve from an endless churn of thoughts and rejections. But I guess I’d grown used to these film reels, so I found myself piqued less by the features themselves than in what mere segments afforded me small mercies; and even those failed to dispel my gnawing sense of negligibility and the loneliness of being unmoored, unseen.
When I was in that theatre, I remember thinking that if I was Barry—stranded in an alternate timeline where heroes who were once widely revered or empowered ceased to exist—I could’ve cared less. Time doesn’t just give context to existence. It agonizes life itself. As a species, we’ve yet to truly evolve or progress. Since history repeats itself in terms of pain, harm, and disparity—regardless of what we do or don’t change—what is the purpose of time, of a life relative to time or other people? While technological and scientific advancements may suggest progress, they don’t address cyclic problems of suffering and injustice. Time is also indifferent to these struggles, as the same issues reappear in new forms across generations. In this respect, time seems pointless, even cruel because it offers the prospect of change without assuring its realization. Therein, time travel becomes a mechanism to explore this horror while simultaneously offering a way to resolve it.
Barry’s journey mirrors the core tenets of horror by confronting not external monsters, but the horrifying reality of devastation caused by his desire to “fix” what was thought to be broken. The fears that premise the time-traveller scenario arise from the catharsis that certain traumas, no matter how painful, are integral to the cosmic order; and that meddling with them can unleash cataclysmic chaos—which aligns with Tropp’s notion that horror works by creating and deconstructing fear in unison. Barry’s time travel offers him a fleeting sense of hope—of reversing loss and rewriting his trauma—but it also creates a terrifying new reality, where his happiness inflicts untold destruction. All iterations of Flashpoint provide audiences with a narrative framework to explore an experience that would otherwise seem chaotic and incomprehensible. In watching Barry wrestle with the horrors of manipulating time, we’re given a likeness to understand our own relationship to the past through a futility of trying to rewrite the inevitable. In the end, this story taps into an existential dread that forces us to confront the immutable nature of time and the consequences of defying it.
And while many people I’ve met have affirmed the existence of fate, that “everything happens for a reason,” it wasn’t until I saw The Flash that I could truly grasp this. Unlike The Flashpoint Paradox, it features Barry’s encounter with a happier version of himself—an alternate self who, in the end, dissolves into the sands of time, embodying the irreversible nature of certain losses. Alternate Barry was just too good to be true. Experiences, no matter how tragic, must remain so for the greater good. The literal and figurative dissolution of Barry’s alternate self speaks to how the personal is more crucial than political. While you may endeavour to change someone or something, unraveling the very fabric of time isn’t exactly selective. Reality and meanings are relative because they coexist. Good is palatable because we discern what is bad. When you aspire to eliminate one, you risk losing both. Just as these opposing meanings maintain balance, the Speed Force governs the equilibrium of time itself in DC Comics. It is an extradimensional energy source that fuels the super-speed abilities of speedsters [imbued with powers like The Flash], enabling them to move, think, and react at lightning-fast speeds, as well as travel through time. Barry channels the Speed Force to become The Flash, using its power to protect the timeline and uphold justice.
On the other hand, Eobard Thawne, the Reverse-Flash, creates and harnesses the Negative Speed Force to maintain his existence and undo The Flash’s heroic legacy. Eobard exists as a living paradox. Despite originating from the future, his existence is contingent upon his enmity with Barry. He continues to exist even when erased from history due to the Negative Speed Force which purposes him outside the normal constraints of time. The lore states that the Negative Speed Force and Eobard’s status as a paradox insulate him from time-altering consequences, allowing him to exist unaffected as timelines shift around him; an advantage Barry lacks. Yet even with this power, Eobard isn’t actually happy. He finds himself at odds, imprisoned in an eternity of obsession despite his freedom from any temporal constraints. He’s denied love, connection, even the very humanity he sought to conquer, illustrating that even mastery over time cannot restore what it takes.
In The Flashpoint Paradox, Eobard appears as the primary antagonist, exploiting the chaos of the alternate timeline to torment Barry and gloat about the catastrophic consequences of Barry’s decision to save Nora. And while he doesn’t appear in The Flash, it was confirmed that Eobard was intended to be the culprit who murdered Nora offscreen. This looms, as his paradoxical existence embodies a cautionary contrast, the very dangers of altering time; a lesson Barry ultimately learns. While Barry seeks to heal past wounds, Eobard thrives on distorting time in an effort to fulfill his own obsession. But this in itself reflects a refusal to change. His attempts to alter reality stem from idealizing or controlling his past, rather than improving who he is in the present. But despite what torment Eobard causes Barry, the latter manages to live a pretty happy life. Although Eobard is free from time, his inability to accept the limits of his own actions resigns him to an endless cycle of misery; a sharp contrast against Barry’s journeys to growth and reconciliation.
I use to identify more with Eobard because of my own pessimistic avoidance, finding his existence as a paradox relatable as a means to shield one against inevitable loss; sparing myself and my beloveds of my very existence and engineering favourable outcomes for us. The Flash allowed me to empathize with Barry as he [his yearning to alter painful events despite knowing the cost] mirrors how I struggle to bear the emotional weight of caring for people who inevitably leave. For me, the film invoked a familiar question: is it worth forming connections that are destined to dissolve, whether through death, distance, or disinterest? The certainty of loss makes every bond feel tenuous, but Barry’s journey imparts that these merry moments may still be worth the pain they bring. The films show us this in a few ways. First, through Nora upon who he warmly scoops into a tearful embrace. Then, in the charmed life of his alternate self. This is also modelled through the multiverse as it begins to implode, conveying that the beauty of connection, however temporary, is intertwined with the certainty of its end.
When alternate Barry dissolved into the sands of time, I bawled. Not because of Miller’s performance, Andy Muschietti’s direction, or even Henry Braham’s cinematography. It was because of the narrative itself. This characterization hinges on the catharsis of one’s own ephemerality. Alternate Barry exists as a flicker against a dying light. He’s a radiant albeit brief impossibility born of a broken time, where his happiness and joy are fleeting in a reality that was never meant to sustain them—which serves as a stark reminder that such sheer happiness can’t persist in a world fundamentally unable to uphold lasting fulfillment. When the sands of time claim him, grain by grain, it marks an erasure of flesh and spirit. Being mortally wounded sees him express a mixture of terror and acceptance, nascent of a child’s dream collapsing into a man’s grief. As he’s swallowed by the very void that his alternative selves tried so desperately to defy, each particle dissolves the laughter that once was. This visualizes the tragic loss of youth and innocence fated to be overtaken by the stark, unrelenting future. His dissolution isn’t just a moment of temporal collapse, but a miserable metaphor for the necessity of growing up and facing harsh realities. To watch him vanish was like watching the erosion of hope and idealism that gives way to the burdens of time and consequence. I felt an unbearable pang as I watched this, like I was witnessing my own innocence being consumed by the relentless hands of fate. Whereas, the Dark Flash, the embittered future [alternate] self—an incarnation of fear and obsession—stands as a testament to the truth I’ve always known but resisted; that happiness, however desperately sought, can’t sustain itself in the shifting landscape of time and loss. There’s an intimacy in alternate Barry’s disintegration that hauntingly echoes my own desire to rewrite past sorrows, yet always knowing that—even if I could go back—the past would remain imbued with the same tragic impermanence.
Initially, I was content to watch to world burn—or in this case, implode—since I was exasperated by the iniquities that vindicate my cynicism. I resolved that if I was Barry, I could’ve cared less [to fix things] because this world’s cons overcome any [highly unlikely] pros and didn’t deserve saving. Like, what’s there to save? The perils of miscellaneous insecurities? The myriad of death and resignation which claimed my beloveds? Prolonging the despair of have-nots against the grain of what profane, performative politics comprise abusers and upper classes? But this scene imparts that time trumps any and every prerogative. It wrenched something raw and vulnerable from deep within, its truth so piercing that it brings tears even now, because it carries the likeness of my own futile longing for a happiness I was never meant to hold.
Charlatans will never see reckoning. Same goes for obscenely privileged positionalities.
My alma mater, amongst other local universities, will never endeavour to retain me regardless of my avowed—and pretty fucking obvious—assets.
My maternal grandmother will never live again.
Neither will my paternal one.
Nor my brother.
Or any other beloveds I’ve outlived.
My family will likely never set aside their petty grievances to simply get along.
My boyfriend’s love will never be totally guaranteed, and he may very well choose to leave me one day although he assures me I’m not expendable [to him].
James and Vera will never be alive again. And as badly as I wish for otherwise, Clark and Edith won’t live forever.
The reality of these impermanent connections only deepens the ache of knowing even the most cherished bonds can never be secured against the passage of time. Yet, time can also proffer great things that endure. I could one day find meaningful, gainful employment where I could work and effect positive change for years to come. My boyfriend has given me some of my happiest moments and our relationship could evolve into a lasting bond in any capacity. And I continue to create meaningful moments with my family in different ways. Even now, I have deeply cherished times with Clark and Edith, whose companionship brings warmth and comfort amid life’s uncertainty. Although I’m mindful of how I can’t be faulted for everything, that certain things are beyond my control, I still feel like I could/should be “accountable” when I fail to ascertain positive outcomes. The Flash motivated me to resist overthinking—via hyperfocusing on particular aspects or points in time—and aspire to be present in the moment, conscious of a grand[er] scheme.
Moreover, time operates on a double-bind of not knowing what’s to come. It’s defined by potential, holding both promise and peril as it unfolds. This uncertainty is equally hopeful as haunting. We know it will bring loss, but we can’t foresee what good may lay ahead. It’s this ambiguity that makes time so daunting yet so full of possibility, as every moment carries the potential to either deepen the wounds of the past or cultivate new, lasting joys. The problem isn’t merely the uncertainty of what’s to come. It’s the question of whether the anguish will be worth it. I don’t exactly fear the adversities time will bring; I just wonder if the bad will ever truly justify the good. Will I see any return on what hope, effort, and love I’ve invested along the way? Can joy, however fleeting, truly outweigh the depths of fated sorrow?
The Flash (2023) seems to suggest the affirmative, as Barry ultimately understands that he must fix what he’s broken in time—not to erase the pain, but to preserve the sanctity that existed in spite of it. His decision reflects that even brief instances of joy or equity can make hardships worthwhile, reinforcing the belief that any good, however small, can transcend the darkness that surrounds it; purposing sorrow as a necessity for the cosmic order. Our despair serves to maintain an equilibrium that governs timelines, peoples, universes beyond our own. The prospect of happier, healthier Fallens who exist elsewhere grants me some closure to make peace with my own indignities; and I’m inclined to count my blessings, appreciating what better living conditions I’ve got in contrast to the Fallens who are worser off.
Likewise, I also understand how disastrous it would be if any of us were to switch places. Imagine if I travelled back in time and wrought a timeline wherein I was a gainfully employed professor, but the absence of my beloveds—and very likely, my conscience—enabled my esteems. Regardless of whether they’d all be alive, I would’ve been estranged from my family. Probably no friends or felines. No boyfriend either. Or, what if my scholarship, salary, and success in that universe were contingent on becoming just as—if not, more—loathsome than the ignobles with whom I currently contend? Even now, I can think of several who are miserable with the familial cards they’ve been dealt. One in particular never misses a chance to impart I’m expendable because I’m not a parent and hold citizenship, absolving themselves of their own complacency, alleging that “suffering” would make me “a better person,” in contrast to more privileged colleagues; while they dote on—sparing no time or expense to ingratiate—themselves amongst internationals and within miscellaneous families in a pathetic effort to vicariously glean some sense of familiarity (notably, parenthood) in lieu of reckoning with their own lack thereof. By their own admission, they’re at odds with relatives—for whatever contrivance or another—wherein immediate relations refuse to indulge or cohabitate with them. It comes as no surprise that they’ve also proven to be anti-Black in imparting likewise, even worse to others. And, there’s another one who opines about how dejected they feel. They resent their family, opting to work late to stall going home for as long as possible. Their significant other functions less as a partner than a ward alongside the progeny neither can seem to civilize, whose narcissism grows as they do and renders their antics more of a nuisance than “cute.” Then, there’s the nepo-hipster whose parents’ [formerly tenured professors] spoils inclined them to cosplay as a queer liberal to supplant an utter lack of self-awareness.
I could go on, but I digress. At the core, this intricate weaving of timelines and alternate selves echoes The Flash’s emphasis on why tampering with time, no matter how well-intended, can yield unforeseen horrors. As Barry confronts the potential cost of rewriting his past, I too recognize that achieving certain desires could mean sacrificing what makes my life meaningful, even if imperfect. In addition to many others, the aforementioned ignobles deplore accountability as much as honesty and kinship, even as they claim—and build personae based on—the contrary. Their measly modus outdoes any vocational and financial fulfillment to the extent that their vanity and trivial pursuits betray them being hollow, condemned to dissatisfaction. Which prompts me to be mindful of the moment. The Flash accentuates this, showing that the real tragedy lies not in what is lost, but in what could be lost by pursuing an illusion of “better.” Some things are truly too good to be true.
Some times too.
♫ Title song reference – “For the Good Times” by Al Green
The summer I turned 22, I could finally appreciate the sentiment that underscored those mushy Hallmark platitudes. James had turned eight in the spring—just under 50 in cat years—and I loved him dearly. But I’d never forget when Edith came to me, jet black and demure as she seldom spoke; and when she did, she tended to whisper. Her voice remains one of the things that sets her apart from the others. First, from James whose tone was always intent and incisive. Later, Vera who had a voice that was distinctly dysphonic: raspy and mangled but bang on with its pitch. Then, Clark whose reserve and indecision distend even the most casual calls into wails. Even today, I still can’t quite explain it. All I know is that when we first met, Edith intoned a curious albeit honest endearment that etched into my heart forever. The fact that she speaks sparingly prompts me to acknowledge her whenever she does. Although I’m told that cats—like people—tend to talk more as they age, I still find myself keen to address what have become frequent utterances.
Like the others, Edith shares a namesake with one of my late relatives: my maternal grandmother, nicknamed ‘Ada,’ who was a devout optimist. I’m grateful for the time we shared since she succumbed to cancer when I turned eight. She proved to be somewhat of an anomaly, attributed to palliative care indefinitely and resolved—and largely, successful in her efforts—to be active. Her children remember her as selfless; raising them independently after my grandfather was lost to cancer many years prior, often foregoing her own intake and leisure to ensure theirs. They tell me that she often said things to me which seemed macabre, but I recall these things to be maudlin in hindsight. Aware of her ailments, she would tell me goodbyes. “I’m going to leave,” she said. “I’ll be here, but you won’t see me.” Several times, she emptied her purse to gift me the entirety of its contents, assuring me that they were better in my hands since her ‘departure’ meant these were things she’d no longer need.
Upon reflection, I think the loss of Ada defines why I still find death hard to come to grips with. I likewise find myself viscerally averse to any type of ‘departure’ from my life, even as I recognize people have the prerogative to abandon me beyond the context of mortality. This has fostered my tendency to mourn the people, places, things that are currently in my life to which bereavement overshadows them. I struggle to live in the moment because I find myself disassociating from it, knowing that the moment will inevitably pass. Even now, as I feel blessed to have Edith for 14 years—to which she’s roughly into her early 70s in cat years—I also feel sad in knowing she too will pass.
Like James.
Like Vera.
And Clark will pass too.
Everyone will.
Which is odd since I think I’m somewhat more amenable to that than the prospect of them leaving, living without me on their own accord. Surely, this betrays some pride or narcissism on my part, but this sentiment is hardly unique. The aftermath of any departure—a breakup, ghosting, abandonment, and so forth—embitters those left behind. It hurts whether we possess the wherewithal to be accountable for what parts we might have played in that exit, or acknowledge what toxicity underscored those who would choose to leave us as if we were expendable, or just accept that people are well within their rights to unravel our grasps upon them. Over the course of our lives, most of us learn—and nurse—that pain firsthand. Consequently, this pain defines us. Not in the sense that life is exclusively pain, but in that we cultivate the skills to push past this and muster the gumption to live life nonetheless.
But as Edith comes to purr at my side, these days, life as I know it has come down to outliving those I care for and staying after others have left. I think back to the summer we met: when her undertones complemented what reeds whispered and swayed in the breeze; and she would burrow her small face into the crook of my arm, then her pupils would recede to slits as we watched the sunset cast fiery hues across the horizon. Back then, I thought back to Ada who resolved to wash clothes by hand since she believed laundry appliances were insufficient. I remembered being a kid, carting soap to her pail, helping her peg each garment to the clothesline to later retrieve the dried colours and textures that would dance in the wind.
It seems almost eerie that Justice League: The Flashpoint Paradox (2013) debuted shortly after I first got Edith; and I say ‘eerie’ because the moral quandaries posed by time travel and prospects of quantum physics now endow me with a sense of relief. Like, this idea that all things—including the bad things—are fated to happen to oblige a grand [existential] design and we should neither rue nor alter them lest we jeopardize the fabric of space and time. Which encompasses the premise of The Flashpoint Paradox: the Barry Allen iteration of The Flash (voiced by Justin Chambers) travels back in time to prevent his mother, Nora (Grey DeLisle), from being murdered therein yielding an alternative universe and timeline. However, he lacks his powers in this reality. Barry also discovers his wife, Iris (Jennifer Hale), is married to someone else and the Justice League ceases to exist. This reality is on the brink of a world war, caught between the misanthropic Amazons led by Wonder Woman (Vanessa Marshall) and the speciesism that informs Aquaman (Cary Elwes) whose legions declare “land-dwellers” to be a scourge. In oversight, the powers that be duly conclude that contemporary society will be caught in the crossfire as the onslaughts foreshadow mutually assured destruction.
While Cyborg (Michael B. Jordan) has grown to become a government operative who the Shazam family aid, the Batman and Joker personas are assumed by Thomas (Kevin McKidd) and Martha Wayne (also Grey DeLisle) respectively while Bruce was the casualty of the fated encounter in Crime Alley. Hal Jordan (Nathan Fillion), although a decorated pilot, never becomes the Green Lantern. Martian Manhunter has also failed to materialize. Superman (Sam Daly) is later found to be imprisoned by the American government, neither utilizing nor realizing his powers. There are several other heroes and villains—Deathstroke (Ron Perlman), Lex Luthor (Steve Blum), Captain Atom (Lex Lang), Steve Trevor (James Patrick Stuart), Lois Lane (Dana Delany)—who assume covert operations to no avail. With Thomas’ help, Barry recreates the accident—being struck by lightning and drenched in forensic chemicals—that gave him his powers. While the first effort leaves Barry badly burnt, the second attempt succeeds to restore his powers.
But all is for naught.
In their quest to best one another, Wonder Woman and Aquaman have devastated the citizenry wherein they’ve overridden legal order and razed countless nations. Everyone who comprises resistance efforts—alien, metahuman, mortals alike—are killed. After Wonder Woman bests him on the frontlines, Aquaman refuses to concede and so detonates a nuclear bomb his forces have engineered using Captain Atom.
Armageddon ensues.
Barry notes that his initial time travel was possible because, during, his nemesis The Reverse Flash—Eobard Thawne (C. Thomas Howell)—was not simultaneously using the Speed Force. Conversely, in this timeline, Eobard now uses such—which means Barry lacks the power to time travel.
Beyond the fray, Eobard emerges to reveal that Barry is to blame for this timeline, explaining that Barry fractured spacetime by traveling to the past to save his mother. Gloating, Eobard pummels Barry until he’s fatally shot by Thomas. With Eobard dead, Thomas implores Barry to use the Speed Force—now, free from Eobard—to travel back in time: “The only way to save the world is to keep this world from ever happening.”
So, Barry runs and confronts himself along the way, preventing himself from intervening in the literal event of his mother’s murder. He later awakens to discover his original timeline restored wherein he is The Flash and comprises Justice League. Iris is shown to be his wife again, by his side at Nora’s grave, and he gleans some relief in that his actions yielded this outcome. Afterward, he visits Bruce Wayne (Kevin Conroy)—the Batman of this time—to ponder the experience; musing on the fact that he retains the memories of his alternate self—joys, special occasions, milestones—that ensued with Nora in the other timeline. Bruce speculates these memories could be a gift of fate, affording Barry a small mercy of recollection given his tragic loss—to which Barry gifts Bruce a letter from Thomas.
When Barry delivers Thomas’ letter, I think of the astronomical depth contained in that message; the weight those words must’ve carried across time. It’s nascent of our proclivities for people we’ve never met, places we’ve never been, or styles we never lived to model.
Kinda like how I love disco even though I’m a millennial.
When disco emerged in the 1970s, it transcribed a fusion of themes and cultural movements, integrating the festive and contentious aspects of its time. The core of disco is freedom, escape, and inclusivity. The genre historically offered a vibrant counterpoint to sociopolitical turmoil of the era like the Vietnam War, stagflation, along with calls to action which hailed from [Civil, gay, feminist] rights and other countercultural movements. Empowering BIPOC and LGBTQIA2S+ remained at the forefront for social change as this period was marked successions—newer waves—of initiatives for rights and inclusion that preceded them. For belaboured communities, disco served as a refuge of upbeat tempo, infectious rhythms, and [typically] glamorous lyrics that encouraged dancing and joy; which resisted conservatism and repression.
Of course, Saturday Night Fever(1977) would mark its decline. The film launched disco to unprecedented heights of mainstream popularity, transforming the genre—created and centered around marginalized positionalities—into a global commercial phenomenon that saw disco oversaturate markets. This would account for the deluge of disco records and themed products, noted for their subpar quality, that endeavoured to resonate less and maximize profit. All of this underscored a public fatigue as masses started to liken disco as formulaic, insipid, and sensationalized. Which would culminate in the ‘Disco Sucks’ trend that prompted a riot that overtook a stadium in which people set a pyre of disco records ablaze.
Still, the eminence of disco is timeless. Which is why I find it resonant even though I didn’t live through its peak. In their respective plights and objectives, Eobard and Barry impart this through their time travel, conveying that things transcend their historical contexts for anyone, any place—any time—whereafter others may derive new meanings and respects. While The Flashpoint Paradox follows Barry and the accursed inhabitants of the alternate timeline, Eobard Thawne is truly at the centre of the dynamic. His manipulation—exemplified in replacing Barry’s costume with his own, including his taunts and blows—serve to affirm his omnipotence within the storyline. Although both Batmans undermine Eobard as a narcissist and sociopath, I still doubt either of them could’ve foreseen the lengths he’d go—or rather, run—to quench his harrowing contempt.
Even as Eobard declares that Barry is to blame for the doomed alternate timeline, he says it’s “worth it” should he himself perish in the catastrophe. The revelation that Barry’s own actions created the Flashpoint timeline—despite Eobard’s provocations—illustrates the interplay between villain and hero, wherein Eobard’s influence transcends mere physicality and delves into the psychological, even existential. Eobard’s ability to manipulate time, survive paradoxical shifts, and maintain his influence over events and [Barry’s] psyche, enshrines him as a central figure whose significance in the narrative is as profound as it is unsettling, emphasizing his power and the focus on his character even as the story follows The Flash.
The Flashpoint Paradox also marks C. Thomas Howell’s voice acting debut, and he absolutely knocks the characterization of Eobard out of the park. Eobard is driven primarily by a personal vendetta. What defines him are envy, hatred, and a desire to prove himself superior whilst knowing his pursuits adversely affect spacetime. His objectives don’t align with broader ethical principles. Rather, they are fundamentally selfish and destructive wherein his time alteration holds consequences which extend far beyond his personal antagonism. Eobard is not only cognizant of the fact his actions threaten universal stability in addition to countless people and timelines, he also relishes the broader implications of his pursuits which are rooted in personal animosity and a desire to subjugate or destroy despite collateral damage. However, this perspective is underscored by an obsessive refusal to accept any outcome that does not align with his desires. In 2010, Geoff Johns illustrates this excellently in The Flash: Rebirth where we see Eobard going back in time over and over again, striving to engineer his own favourable outcomes, only to grow increasingly miserable because he finds himself yielding the very same—and worse—outcomes that he sought to amend.
What makes Eobard so relatable is his inability to accept the things he can’t change and that he himself refuses to change. This underscores a universal truth about the futility of trying to achieve happiness or growth through harm, and the detriment of refusing to accept and adapt to life’s inherent limitations. For all his powers and ingenuity, Eobard is ultimately characterized by a lack of empathy and an objection to grow or learn from his experiences. Which is why he pairs well as a nemesis for Barry whose indomitable will is conversely shown to be a source of strength and resilience purposed for a greater good, whereas Eobard’s resolve begets anguished actions and outcomes which speak to his maladjustment and failure to constructively engage with the challenges of life. There may be elements within him that aspire to overcome adversity, but what takes precedence is a commitment to impose his will. His animosity with Barry imparts a broader theme that the nature of one’s will—whether it is used for growth and positive change or for selfish ends—plays a crucial role in defining heroism or villainy.
And Eobard’s motifs go beyond obsession. He’s so preoccupied with power, control, and altering reality that he neglects the importance of personal fulfillment, interpersonality, and goodwill. His happiness is contingent on the affirmations of others and systems, which is a precarious and hollow premise for one’s value. Eobard embodies what becomes of those who become more entrenched in their ways through ignobility and manipulation for which individuals who fixate on their pasts grow alienated, bitter, and trapped in a cycle of despair wherein they never truly “win” or heal. Another element to Eobard: his inability to grasp that the essence of life is change; and I think that inability is derived from the fact that he exists as a paradox in time, literally impervious to change. Other films and comics provide this insight as Eobard was actually running through time opposite Barry. Therefore, he was unaffected because history changed therein. These changes occurred when he was outside of history and as such, he did not comprise it. He lacks a marked beginning and end. He’s a paradox because, by this logic, he shouldn’t exist.
Ironically, only after Edith had curled into my lap, this was something I could make sense of. Eobard exists like Schrödinger’s cat. And ICYMI: Schrödinger’s cat is a thought experiment in quantum mechanics that illustrates the concept of superposition—where, until observed, a system can exist in multiple states simultaneously. When applied to Thawne, this analogy speaks to his likeness as a paradox. Since he lacks a history, he comprises all states of being in unison. He can’t truly die because there’s no point of reference wherein he lived; and he can’t exactly be alive since he transcends the concept of life itself. Eobard is simultaneously erased and intact across different timelines. This duality allows him to exist in a state of quantum superposition, present and not present in the continuum of spacetime. He is alive exclusively in a narrative sense, acknowledged by those external to him. His impact is only real if observable by others, even though his origin point or historical continuity is not fixed. This puts his ignorance to internalizing a peace of mind into perspective; and draws an interesting parallel for us as we exist inasmuch the eyes of our beholders.
This is punctuated by the fact that, in hindsight, Eobard is the one who spurs Barry to time travel. The former taunts the latter: “Enjoy your petty little victories, Flash. But no matter how fast you run, you can’t save everyone. Not the ones that matter to you.” While this taunt inclines Barry to go back in time to save Nora, invoking the grief that haunts him since childhood, it also resonates with a desire to prove Eobard wrong and alter his fate for the better. But save for his costume, Eobard is hardly seen for most of the film which serves to foreground the chain of events that define the complex moral and ethical dilemmas associated with time travel and the butterfly effect. And when Eobard does emerge, he calls Barry out, affirming that this doomed timeline is quite literally the hell to pay for interference. When Barry alters time to suit his own ends, he treats time as a vanity project. “You didn’t stop JFK from getting assassinated or make sure Hitler stayed in art school,” Eobard chides, “You saved your mommy. You missed her.” While Eobard merely goaded Barry, it’s the latter whose actions have wrought Armageddon.
Which ties back to the [Serenity] prayer that Nora imparts to Barry as a child, recalling her own grandmother telling her the same: “Accept the things you cannot change. Have the courage to change the things you can. And have the wisdom to know the difference.” This prayer raises the question of discernment in human agency: how we distinguish between what is within our power to change and what is not, considering the limits of our control and influence. It begs the question of not only how we reflect in terms of acceptance and action, but also in how we apply wisdom to our lives. In The Flashpoint Paradox, this is thematic in that even those empowered—whether superpowered or respective to a privileged positionality—must concede to inherent limitations because there are certain aspects of life and reality that we simply cannot change.
The advice also affirms the importance of having the courage to change the things that are within one’s power—which kinda reminds me of Spider-Man as I think of my own elders when remembering how Uncle Ben famously said, “With great power comes great responsibility.” Elders who loved me, who ultimately wanted nothing more than for me to grow into a good person; a kind, loving, and selfless person who would do the right thing with whatever power I have. They believed in me—my goodwill, pride, and all—and supported my dream of [permanent] professorship so as to be empowered within academia which would translate beyond. If you have the power to do good in this world, you have a responsibility to do that good. That also means accepting when you fail to do so; whether that’s all the time you wasted trying to find happiness in people who fail to see you, or all the love lost between yourself and beloveds, or the demise of those you loved because you refused this responsibility.
Because people seldom recognize and undertake the truth of who (or what) they are or have become.
And, some wistful part of me wants to believe that it was no accident that Edith’s advent coincided with this insight. As I hold her in my arms now, I’ve yet to let go of the fears I held back then. Which is ironic as most tend to hold me in high regard, yet never think twice to let me go. Most laud me as strong: a scholar who’s fast-tracked several degrees, working my fingers to the bone with several bones to pick with those who fail to appreciate my efforts; whose lectures impart competence and charisma; whose words decorate peer-reviewed and non-refereed publications.
Except that’s not the whole truth.
As a lonely, cynical workaholic, I’ve internalized that I’m powerless and expendable; that I’m doomed to squander what scant power I possess. My pursuits evince as much resolve as desperation because I refuse to concede to limitations and strive to act decisively where I can make a difference. I’m alright with the how, why, who, what, and where.
What gets me is the when.
It’s not that I regret my mistakes in and of themselves. I regret making them in the first place.
But this isn’t unique to me. The desire to travel back in time [to correct past mistakes or avoid pain] encapsulates a fundamental aspect of the human condition: our capacity to reflect and for shame. This longing stems from our ability to contemplate our actions and their outcomes, coupled with an intrinsic wish to alter decisions that led to negative consequences. It attests to understanding causality and how subtleties impact life as we know it.
At the same time (no pun intended), it evokes antithetical desires: the want to learn from our experiences, whilst wanting to negate what pain or loss accompanies these lessons. These desires belabour our efforts to live an ideal life of happiness as we strive to minimize our suffering and avoid loss. They personify our psyches through aversions to pain and capacities for care. When I yearn to go back—to prevent myself from acting in certain ways, being in certain places, meeting certain people—it’s not because I want a personal do-over. It’s because I broadly aspire for perfection and protection for myself and those I care about.
So, I repine whatis as I dream of whatcould be.
My parents would probably be happier if I didn’t exist. To call them estranged would be an understatement. Without me, they wouldn’t be obliged to cross each other. My absence would proffer them the freedom to pursue their happiness independently, so it’s conceivable that their lives may be better without me in them.
Likewise, my siblings would be better off. My sister would be more favoured. We’re seven years apart, so I can only imagine how better established or aware my parents would’ve been had they met and conceived then—as opposed to prior with me—at that juncture of their lives. They could’ve given her more acclaim for lack of comparison. The same also goes for my late brother. If I was never born, my parents could’ve devoted themselves—more time, attention, and resources—to him. Maybe then, they could’ve ascertained and subsequently intervened to rid him of his inner demons; instead of fruitlessly pouring into me since my gainful employment or benefits have yet to—if at all—materialize.
Come to think of it, my partner might be content if we never met. I cannot begin fathom how he tolerates my flaws. An assortment of obsessive compulsions and anxiety mark my own struggle to even stand myself, so I can only imagine how burdensome someone else would find my insecurities. Given our own proclivities for isolation and resignation to our fates [which seem contingent on obliging others to our own detriments], I wonder if our connection ensued as a consequence of a misguided time traveller.
On the other hand, my counsellors argue that my non-existence wouldn’t necessarily ensure these positive outcomes. Seemingly random or chaotic states of systems can arise from underlying patterns and deterministic laws, challenging traditional notions of predictability and control. Chaos theory, with its emphasis on the sensitivity of systems to initial conditions, provides a fascinating grounds for this; and is also a lens through which we might view the attempts of Eobard Thawne and Barry Allen who travel time to find fulfillment or happiness. It suggests that even minor changes to the past can lead to unpredictable—often vastly different—outcomes, rendering time alteration [to any extent] risky. This problematizes time travel because its uncertainty is not guaranteed to result in favourable outcomes. Less people are familiar with chaos theory than its famed butterfly effect, positing that even the smallest change causes profound impact.
For Eobard and Barry, chaos theory notes their attempts to manipulate time are fraught with potentials to spawn incidental effects which are far removed from their original intentions and desires. This resonates in several of their story arcs where their attempts to alter the timeline cause collateral damage, complications, or further personal and moral dilemmas. As such, their stories often impart that the pursuit of happiness—especially using such drastic measures as time travel—overlooks the immanent caprices of complex systems, like human lives and societies. Additionally, personae and viewers alike come to the same realization: no matter the time or place, or intervention, inequities and disparities persist. Eobard grows bitter, entrenched in recurrent letdowns, to which he absconds goodwill, citing the absence of guarantees. For Barry, in contrast, the Serenity Prayer is practical wisdom to face—and respect—the interplay between order and chaos. As for me, my non-existence doesn’t negate what abject prospects my parents, siblings, and partner could face. My parents may have ended up with different [worse] partners. My siblings could’ve succumbed to darker forms of anguish. My partner might’ve fallen prey to a fatal attraction. These dismal potentials should therefore merit my existential value.
But they don’t.
These alternate “worse” scenarios denote less truth than pathos. Optimistic platitudes elicit irritation rather than comfort. To put it mildly, there’s a massive gap between these prospectively “worse” timelines and how my pessimism is affirmed in this one. I need concrete solutions and assurances, not rhetorical devices. Do people still think knowing “it could be worse” does anything to allay despair or anxiety? Do catharses ensue when we’re aware of grosser alternatives?
The reason I identify more with Eobard comes from another paradox of [good] morality and material prosperity. Barry allows his mother to be murdered as ordained in the original timeline to spare the other one, which imparts we ourselves must suffer the bad to befit a greater good. But for marginalized peoples—historically enslaved, assimilated, genocided peoples—this doesn’t land. It is sheer fallacy to purport we must suffer to spare others given our peoples’ erasure and exploitation, especially when the “greater good” functions as a supremacist worldview that is hegemonized. To that end, morality has been—and continues to be—instrumentalized by privileged positionalities whom are empowered as gatekeepers as well as within stations of allocation and oversight. If I were to concede to hope—premised on an idea of a world whose atrocity justifies the reality of this one—I’d be lying to myself. These platitudes feel fake, engineered to quash any resistance and ensure complacency.
Which draws me back to Edith: I remember when she first met James, how earnest she was to keep her distance. I remember how long it took for them to finally get along, weeks later, and being mindful of the fact that my desire for their camaraderie neither obliged nor guaranteed them to get along. As I supervised their exchanges, I mused upon how, just because I chose them, that didn’t mean they must follow suit. These days, Edith kneads when I find myself enraged by people who insist everyone else must right themselves towards their desires. People for whom, outside of their wants, we cease to exist; people who shrug as we perish, but volunteer to deliver our eulogies; people who insist suffering makes us better, yet are agonized when their karma takes shape in grievances. We’ve all met these kinds of people. Maybe once, we were them; but that doesn’t make us bad people. Because good people change. All the same, as much I try to be a good person, I don’t flatter myself. While people from several walks of life call me “distinguished,” I’m far from perfect. Like you, I struggle to make life work and to persevere against odds which feel insurmountable. Every decision I make comes with new problems to deal with.
How many times have you asked yourself, “What am I supposed to do?”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I just know what I’d like to do, and I try to be mindful of that distinction. While I can’t time travel, my ancestry has made me privy to historical and ongoing atrocities of the charred aftermaths of lynchings, frozen cadavers, and peals of agony. While these profoundly unnerve me, they’ve been glossed over or commodified by token wealthies, hypocrites, and charlatans—all of which conspire to cheat and demoralize me. I don’t have a morsel of their power, so my truth cannot overcome their falsehoods. I can’t relate to Barry because I don’t see any “greater good.” Like, how entitled is it to deprive me even more in the interests of a status quo wherein good itself [as is] can’t be salvaged? Like Eobard, I’m inclined to be amoral since the prevalence of injustices vindicate my cynical worldview. I’d gladly perish in an alternate timeline where I was assured acceptance, purpose, happiness—even if only for a short time—to spare myself further anguish and indignities I’ll likely encounter (or cause) in this time.
I don’t choose to be a pessimist. I just can’t help it.
What sets me apart from Eobard is people.
Recent versions of Eobard cast him as somewhat of a victim when foes murder one of his ancestors, thereby eliminating his home [the future] and confining him to the present. Although this narrative isn’t definitive, it draws upon the sense of rage and displacement inherent to his character. Eobard was isolated and disconnected from everyone, everything, long before he became unmoored from time. Eobard becomes a super-speedster through replicating the accident that empowered Barry because he idolized him; and this idolatry is augmented by the absence of Eobard’s own sense of purpose and meaningful relationships. Their fated enmity comes to pass when Eobard snaps once he uncovers records which identify him as Barry’s nemesis.
As much as Eobard wants to emulate or best Barry, what he ultimately wants is fulfillment. His ends aren’t justified, only occluded by his extraordinary means. Moreover, Eobard is shown to deceive any and all allies. It occurs to me that Eobard doesn’t choose to be disloyal, but rather he can’t help it. He betrays others, even himself, because everything he does betrays an underlying sense of not belonging. His choices are informed by a desire to matter and be remembered—which betrays that he is so removed from humanity, striving to connect by manipulating time, only to further alienate himself. Eobard is thus truly tragic, the epitome of how the pursuit of power to supplant identity ensures antipathy.
Which parallels how my own pessimism—defined by my disempowerment—renders me perpetually at odds with the world and myself. Instead of adaptation or acceptance, vengeance seems to be a more apt objective for the injustices, inequities, and such that I’m subjected to. I want to get back at the iniquitous—former advisers, mentors, and grifters—who told [and continue to tell] me that my thankless, tireless drudgery would assure worthwhile outcomes. I want to reclaim a future I was denied, a glowing future that was promised to comprise my present. My timeline is literally up in the air because colonial regimes have murdered and cheated my ancestors; and I’m now told to “make do” by folks who came by their intergenerational wealth and cultivated assets off the backs of my peoples’ erasure, enslavement, and execution. And even after I oblige and surpass ascriptions of merit, I’m still denied. But those in oversight are in my ear, imploring me to “enjoy the journey” as I lament the future being unclear. This too is not unlike Eobard who, rather than accept and adapt to signs of the times, desires to avenge his lost futures, making his rage and displacement a natural albeit destructive path for him.
This is the irony of Eobard, exempt from the conditions of spacetime but remit to past grievances; a living paradox who lives outside of time only to define himself within it. Even now, I get teary as I look to Edith, in spite of her good health, pondering her inevitable departure. I could never forget her; I wouldn’t want to. Just like Ada. Yet, I can’t reckon with the finality of loss. That is, I strive so deeply to gain in an effort to negate my losses. Eobard similarly acts not so much in the interest of winning, but to appease his aversion to responsibility. Where, when, and how he runs indicts his attempts to run away from the pain [and accountability] associated with acceptance.
But I actually have people I care about, the same people whose lives I wager my non-existence would benefit. They impart the value in facing the truth. The whole truth. Life is so vast. It can’t be consigned to gratuitous evils. There’s truth in that my family manages to chip away at my heart; and I hope that my partner, in his heart of hearts, resolves to hang in there for the truths our love evinces. Truth is what moors fear when you share your heart with someone. Specifically, the fear that expressing your truth is too much for your beloveds to bear. It’s hard, but this feat leads us to find—and feel—something greater, something more. Truth doesn’t undo us. It makes us stronger. Even though it takes time, even knowing that there may be more to overcome, your truth resonates with you more than what precedes it.
This was only something I came to realize after meeting my partner. For my tendency to make mountains out of molehills, what tides me over is knowing he isn’t subject to the [grim] whims of my imagination (although I still wouldn’t be surprised if a time traveller appeared and admitted they had a hand in things). Truth taught me to hold on, if only for a second longer. Although I wonder if those who’ve passed learned this, I can only wish them well, wherever they are; even alive and well somewhere else in time, and I can only respect what suffering I needed to feel, if only to assure their wellness.
My mind wanders to alternate timelines where I can simultaneously exist and observe my non-existence.
I think of encountering my parents, both of whom radiate confidence and contentment, pausing as they’re struck by déjà vu as I hold a door open for them in passing. They might be together, they might not. In any case, they’d have more colour in their cheeks.
My mother wouldn’t be as tired. She would muster the energy to take charge, take stock of her ambitions, totally free to indulge her dreams and leisures since my absence would afford her more time and resources. And she wouldn’t consider the consequences for talking reckless. “Next time is next time,” she’d scoff. “Now is now.”
My father would appear less wan and sound less hoarse. He wouldn’t think twice to regale anyone with his tales of memories, because he’d have so much more without me there to weigh him down. Even if I revealed who I was, I wouldn’t be surprised if he still reiterated what he often tells me; about how we can only go forward and learn to navigate our wants and abilities within the larger framework of what is right and possible.
My siblings would exchange looks after they caught sight of me, slurping an XL soda, when they make a pit stop for one of their road trips. Maybe my brother would replace his cap, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and derision would subsume my sister’s curiosity. Either one of them would remark on how they’d have to get back on the road, then opine about the unbelievable gas prices. Just the two of them, they’d play off each other better—even happier—without me to complicate the birth order. My sister would shine in the absence of my shadow, empowered to connect and laugh off others’ chagrins. And my brother…well, however he was, he’d still be alive.
Then, my partner—whose charms I’ve devoted sonnets to—would want for not, whether he was alone on the sidelines, gauging his pride in observing the lack of others’ or bemused by some bombshell. I’d encounter him near campus. I’d blush when he’d answer the door, just as he did the day we met. But this time around, I’d be less stiff and proffer more insight to our conversation. Since his specialties are in science and mine are humanities, I’d admit to reaching across the aisle every so often because I was fascinated by generative adversarial networks and causal loops—until it’d occur to me that I was rambling, but he’d politely listen all the same. Then, I’d think of us together elsewhere, somewhere else in time; where neither of us would think twice to declare our truths. And I’d feel like crying, albeit I’d be consoled by the time at hand wherein my non-existence is for the best.
And in all these encounters, if I ever found myself entreated by one of these people I care for, my answer would never change: “No thanks. Maybe some other time.”
♫ Title song reference – “Time in a Bottle” by Jim Croce
Fallen Kittie 