Dimensions

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting a warm amber light across the fields outside the small country house. Inside, the air was thick with the quiet anticipation that accompanies the night before a wedding. In the living room, amidst the scent of polished wood and old books, a grandfather and his grandson sat across from one another. The silence between them was not awkward but purposeful, like the calm before a significant storm.

The grandfather, a man whose wisdom was carved into the creases of his face, leaned forward, resting his hands on the knotted surface of his cane. He regarded his grandson with a steady gaze—one that held more weight than usual.

“I don’t usually give advice without being asked,” he began, his voice rich with the resonance of time, “but it took me a lifetime to figure this one thing out, and I wanted to give you a head start.”

The grandson, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, felt the gravity of the moment. His grandfather had always been a source of love and quiet support but rarely of counsel. This was new territory. He straightened his posture, his attention sharpening.

“What is it, Grandpa?” he asked, his voice low, reverent.

The old man smiled, the kind of smile that hinted at secrets. “Dimensions,” he said.

The grandson blinked. “Dimensions?”

“Yes. The fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions.” The grandfather gestured around them. “You’ve lived in the first three all your life—length, width, and height. Simple enough, right? You can see them, touch them. They’re what we move through every day.”

The grandson nodded. “I remember that from school.”

“But the fourth dimension,” the grandfather continued, “is time. It’s something we can’t see or touch, but we feel it constantly. Think of it as a line stretching from the past, through the present, and into the future. Every moment, every second, moves us along this line. Time isn’t just passing; it’s carrying us.”

He paused, watching the understanding settle on his grandson’s face.

“Now, the fifth dimension,” he said. “This is where it gets more theoretical. Imagine time isn’t a single line, but a tree with branches. Each choice you make creates a new branch, a new timeline. The fifth dimension holds all possible timelines—alternate realities where events play out differently. You chose this path, but in another timeline, you might’ve chosen something else. Each version of you exists there, living out different lives.”

The grandson furrowed his brow. “So… there are infinite versions of me, all making different choices?”

“Exactly,” the grandfather said. “And now, the sixth dimension. This one’s harder to grasp. It’s the dimension of infinite possibilities across all timelines—past and future. Not just what could happen next, but what could have happened differently in the past. It’s the web of every possible outcome, across every possible timeline. 

The grandson leaned back, his mind swirling with the enormity of it all. He was silent for a long moment, digesting the idea of infinite timelines and infinite possibilities.

“But why… why are you telling me this now?” His voice was cautious, uncertain. “What do these dimensions have to do with marriage? With me?”

The grandfather leaned back, letting his grandson sit with the weight of the question for a moment. Then he spoke again, his voice calm but deliberate.

“There’s a difference,” he began, “between comprehending something and being able to manipulate that understanding.”

The grandson tilted his head slightly, confused but intrigued.

“To comprehend the fourth dimension,” the grandfather continued, “you simply have to understand that time is finite. Life is not infinite for a human life. You will die one day, and knowing that changes how you see everything. It’s not just a theory anymore—it’s real. The awareness of mortality unlocks something within you. You begin to understand consequences. You start to see how your choices ripple through time, shaping your life. That’s the moment a person becomes a fourth-dimensional creature. They don’t just live through time; they understand it.”

The grandson frowned thoughtfully, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee. “So… realizing you’ll die makes you a fourth-dimensional creature?”

“Not just realizing,” the grandfather corrected. “Truly understanding. It’s when you move from living moment to moment without thought, to living with the knowledge that every choice has weight. Once you reach that point, you can’t help but start looking back and asking, ‘What if?’ You explore timelines in your mind—wondering how things might have been different if you had made other choices.”

The grandson nodded slowly. “Okay, I can see that. And the fifth dimension?”

“Ah,” the grandfather said, his eyes twinkling. “That’s when things get more complex. When you start thinking beyond your own choices and consequences, and you begin to understand how your choices interact with those of others. You see the relationships between decisions, not just your own, but everyone’s. This understanding lets you shift your perspective. You realize that other people are also navigating their timelines, making decisions with their own consequences. That’s the beginning of exploring the fifth dimension—not just thinking ‘what if I had chosen differently,’ but ‘what if they had?’”

The grandson leaned forward again, captivated.

“Once you’re on this path,” the grandfather continued, “True fifth-dimensional beings don’t just consume—they exchange. They trade understanding, skills, and even ways of seeing the world. Through these exchanges, they gain new paradigms and perspectives of what could be. That’s how they explore other timelines—through their interactions with others.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“I tell you this not because you don’t understand it,” the grandfather said gently, “but because I think you already do. You just didn’t have the context I’ve given you.”

The grandson sat in silence, absorbing everything. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “Thank you. But… why frame it this way?”

The grandfather smiled, a deep, knowing smile. “That,” he said, “is what I really wanted to talk about.”

The grandfather’s smile faded, replaced by a serious expression. He tapped his cane gently on the floor, as if to mark the transition into deeper waters.

“Now,” he said, “let’s talk about the sixth dimension. This is where the real challenge lies.”

The grandson leaned in, anticipation thick in the air.

“Sixth-dimensional beings,” the grandfather began, “go beyond choices and relationships. They understand something fundamental: throughout history and into the future, people will always act like people. We’re driven by the same motivations—fear, love, ambition, survival. But the sixth-dimensional being doesn’t stop at recognizing this. They learn from it. They take the messy, complicated reality of human nature and use it to craft innovations and situations that allow for futures better than the past. They don’t just follow existing timelines; they create new ones—ones that had never been imagined before.”

He paused, his gaze steady. “And they do it not just for themselves, but for the benefit of all.”

The grandson exhaled slowly. “So, they shape the future by understanding the past?”

“Exactly,” the grandfather said. “They surpass choices and relationships by seeing the bigger picture. They know how people truly act in different situations, what really drives them. And with that knowledge, they create opportunities, solutions, even entire realities that others can’t yet envision.”

He sat back, folding his hands over the top of his cane. “But here’s the thing. Most people? They never even become fourth-dimensional beings.”

The grandson frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Many people,” the grandfather explained, “go through life as victims of reality. They don’t make conscious choices—they let life happen to them. And you know what? Their reality can be pleasant enough. They’re comfortable, content. But they’re passive. They don’t shape their lives; they simply exist in them.”

The grandson nodded slowly.

“Then there are those who do learn to choose,” the grandfather continued, “but they focus only on themselves. They become consumers—constantly seeking to take in more, but never giving back. Their choices are driven by personal gain. And while they may benefit in the short term, they’re missing something crucial: exchange. Their consumption, though, provides capital—resources, fuel—for the sixth-dimensional beings who innovate and build something greater.”

The grandson’s eyes widened. “So, those who create… they’re shaping the future with the resources consumers provide?”

“Precisely,” the grandfather said. “And that’s why I’m telling you this now. Don’t wait to innovate. Don’t wait to create something truly amazing. Marriage isn’t just a choice. It isn’t just an exchange of perspectives for mutual benefit. It’s something more—it’s a support system. A partner who will question your misunderstandings. A voice of reason when you lose your way. Together, you’ll challenge each other, grow together, and, if you aim high enough, build a future neither of you could have imagined alone.”

The room fell into a deep, contemplative silence. The grandson sat back, staring at his grandfather, feeling the weight of his words settle into his bones.

Finally, the grandfather spoke again, his voice soft but firm. “You have a choice now. With your new partner, you can aim higher. You can create something that outlives both of you—a world built on understanding, innovation, and love.”

The grandson swallowed, his throat tight with emotion. “Thank you, Grandpa. I… I think I understand now.”

The grandfather smiled again, the kind of smile that carried both pride and hope. “Good. Now go, start your life together. And remember: the future is yours to shape.”

The grandson stood, gave his grandfather a firm, heartfelt hug, and left the room with a new clarity in his eyes.

The grandfather watched him go, knowing he had planted a seed that would grow far beyond anything either of them could see.