Infantism and Trains

A (very) Short Foreword
Welcome, reader, to the haphazardly recorded and compiled experiences that are to be my memoirs. You will find that, unlike most typical memoirs, my own does not span the entirety of my life up until now, both for a reason that will become clear to you and because before my life was changed dramatically it was not anything worth retelling, so I have chosen to exclude it and avoid tedium.
Although I have re-told this tale to another before, it was wasted on their ears. I am recording this in hope that someone will realise the truth of my tale and the experience will not be lost on only myself. Perhaps that person will be you, but whether you believe what I have to say or not, I hope that you are able to gain something from the words within these pages.

Sincerely,
Sebastian Gould


Chapter I
I will begin my narrative with a small glimpse into my life as a functioning and subservient drone of society. I am sure that this is very unlikely to interest you, but I feel that it is necessary in order to correctly portray the transformation of both myself and to a lesser extent, those closest to me. As fitting a place to start as any, I will begin as I returned home from the supermarket forty years of age – a small box of insecurity in-hand.
Obtaining this simple, sealed cardboard package on the way back from work whilst avoiding embarrassment had seemed like a more simple operation in the planning stages, but when the time came for fruition, when put on the spot by a young cashier, I had failed to muster up anything more than a lame, mumbled, "... For my wife."
Assuring myself that the experience was now nothing more than an uncomfortable memory, I removed my jacket, placed it on a chair at the kitchen table and loosened my tie. I was back within the confines of my sleek apartment, gazing out through the window on to the busy street below. I poured myself a glass of orange juice and sat back in my favourite chair, juice in one hand and my hard-won box of hair dye in the other.
After a while of brooding in my arm chair, it occurred to me that postponing the inevitable was likely to get me nowhere fast, so I got up from my position, sauntered over to the large mirror in the dining room and leant in close to be greeted by my own tired-looking mug. I tilted my head forward, examining my scalp, as if hoping the depressed assortment of silver strands may have just fallen out on my way home. No such luck. I downed the remaining orange juice, placed the glass back down on the bench, examined the small box once more and opened it briskly.

If I had known that my hair was going to turn the colour that it did, I would have taken my chances with the stray age-revealing hairs. The blotchy unpleasant brown colour may as well have been a sign stuck to my forehead saying 'mid-life crisis'. Maybe I should have got Lori to do it, after all. She would be back at quarter-past five with ingredients for dinner.
I sighed. Everything about my current situation made me feel dispirited, but routine is what got to me the most. Repeating the same menial tasks every day, every week, every month. The year was broken up by holidays such as Christmas, but even they fall into the annual tedium after enough orbits around the sun – that and my relationships with others. I lived with my wife because it was both socially accepted and mutually beneficial. I had, at one point, felt a passion and love for her, but desensitisation becomes an issue after loved-ones fall into the daily dirge. Interactions become a necessity rather than something that happens because one wishes for them to.
The sound of keys turning in the front door broke my train of thought, indicating that Lori had returned home. I looked at my watch: 5:16 PM. She was practically right on time, as usual. I went to greet her, kissed her on the cheek and asked her how her day had been, as I did every evening. I then shut off my hearing as she proceeded to explain the various dramas that had comprised her day at work. Everything was a big deal for her, she was one of those people who cried just to see the mascara run down their cheeks and indulge in the consequent attention. Not everything about her was bad, though, of course. We tolerated each other.

It seemed at times that if I only put in the effort to make a little change in my life, to go the extra yard, things wouldn't be so glum for me, but that really just wasn't the reality of things. I had practically all that I wanted, yet I was still unhappy. It was the environment that oppressed me, not myself, not the way I dealt with relationships (or didn't deal with them). Maybe If I could get away from it things would be better.
Once the idea had found its way into my brain there was almost no escaping it. As I drove to work, possible scenarios flowed endlessly through my consciousness. I could not escape it, I had to do it. I had to get away.


Chapter II
It was cold when I dragged myself from under the covers of my bed. The frigid air had me shivering in moments, but I soon thwarted the cold with trousers and a thick polar fleece. Lori lay sleeping on the other side of the bed. I left the room without so much even as a kiss on the forehead. I hoped that if I returned, I would have more to offer her here.
The train station was practically deserted when I arrived, save a few people slumped in corners sleeping, their dirty clothes dimly illuminated by the low-powered lights that lined the roof. I stepped cautiously through the turnstile and down the stairs to the platform. I had no idea where I was heading and had planned only to catch the first train that arrived and go from there. I felt like a young child running away from home. After sitting on a heavily graffitied bench for somewhere close to an hour, I heard the rumble of train tracks and the tunnel grew brighter as a train approached.

What purpose did my life really serve? As I believed in no greater being, purpose beyond life on this earth, or anything along that religious vein, I could not fall back on it upon realising that most of us lived our lives serving only the continuation of the human race, and what was that for? Yes, we may develop advancements in science and medicine, but for what? To allow us to live longer; further destroying the natural resources of our planet? The whole idea seemed utterly futile. Maybe my plan for self-discovery was pointless. It was too late for me to do anything worthwhile with my life.

I stepped over the yellow line and stood on the edge of the platform.  Air rushed by my face as the front of the train whizzed past, slowed and stopped. I stepped through the metal double doors of the train, to be met with a harsh plastic smell. I wrinkled my nose and sat down. Why they chose to install brand new seats that were so uncomfortable, I really don't know. As I suspected, it was virtually empty. The only other passengers in this compartment were a woman and her baby. The woman seemed to be in her early thirties, with medium-length dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a nose that was ever so slightly crooked.
Thought it interested me why this woman would be catching a train at 1:00 AM in the morning, it was the baby in her arms that really drew my attention. Not because there was anything especially captivating about this baby, but rather the topic of babies in general took my interest. Like little mini-humans they were ready to mould into practically anything, they had an infinite amount of possibilities ahead of them. I envied the potential promise that their lives held – that this baby's life held.
As I sat, staring in jealousy, the lights of the train flickered and went out completely. I didn't panic, but instead sat patiently, if somewhat apprehensively, in the dark.
When light returned to aid with my vision my view-point had changed to the lap of the lady on the train. I jerked violently with shock and the woman looked down at me, concerned. She cradled me in her arms rocked me back and forth, soothingly. It was then that I realised. I looked across at the spot opposite me and found that I was no longer there. Had I ever been there?
Before I could possibly come to terms with what had happened, I was picked up and carried off the train. I struggled to see around the blanket that had been wrapped around me for warmth as my neck was not strong enough to give adequate elevation to my proportionately over-sized head. I resigned only to watching upwards as we travelled along and was slightly alarmed to realise that my eyesight only functioned effectively to a distance of about an arm's reach. From what I could tell we walked a block from the train station before turning left into an apartment building, up some stairs down a brightly lit corridor and through a door that lead to the apartment itself. There I was placed inside a small cot and left for the night. I was utterly powerless to resist. What on earth was going on?


Chapter III
Stuck inside the body of this baby, I had no way to effectively communicate with the rest of the world. One would expect a baby with the mind of a man to be able to write at least a semblance of words with a stray pen or something of the sort, but the fine motor skills were just not well-developed enough. I knew what I wanted my writing to look like, but all that I could produce was the stereotypical scribblings that most toddlers seem to be capable of. The frustration was unbearable.
Talking was infinitely more fruitless. Need I even describe to you the experience of attempting to speak through a mouth accustomed to nothing more than suckling and crying? I am more than confident in your own ability to imagine the outcome. Even if I had managed to communicate verbally, what would I say to my new mother? I seemed hopelessly trapped. For now I would have to grow accustomed to my new temporary body until I worked out exactly what had happened, and how I could go about reversing the process.
Being relocated to the mind of a baby was definitely not without its physical disadvantages, per se. I actually considered crawling to the toilet at one point, but realised that I would never be able to make it up to the bowl. I found having to defecate in my own nappy nothing short of repulsive. Yet it was not these physical unpleasantries that were my main concern. No, what worried me the worst was not the horrible mushy baby food or the complete lack of teeth for that matter, but rather the predicament of the mind.
Am I a man in a baby's body, or have I become a baby with a man's mind? Where was my body? What has happened to the mind of this baby? Is controlling my body? I cringed at the thought of it lying on the ground dribbling on itself like a vegetable.
It was not after quite some time that I realised the baby's consciousness had not left at all. The whole time I had been sharing the mind, but my vastly more developed mind had quashed the baby out of all control. It just could not compete.

As the time passed by I learned to gradually coax the baby out of its hiding place in the back of the mind. Direct communication between our two consciousnesses was not possible due to only one of us having learned a language of communication, but the more I relinquished control, the more the baby crept forward to control that which I no longer did. Control of the mind gradually became more of a joint operation and as it did I began to get glimpses of activity from the baby. Not coherent thoughts, but more basic feelings. The baby was tentative and confused, but not afraid. After all, how was it to know that having a foreign consciousness invade one's mind was not a typical stage of development. I attempted to build a trust with the baby. If I felt it's desire to do something, such as pick up a coloured block, I would do so and observe the emotional response.
It became clear that the baby, whose name I learned was Toby, preferred to do things himself, so the next time I felt his impulse, I relinquished complete control and allowed the baby to pick up it's juice cup by itself. Having the baby control everything allowed me to sit back and focus solely on observing. I observed him learn using all of his senses, putting objects in his mouth and feeling their texture and density, listening to the sound of his mothers voice, learning to recognise the different tones to it; pleased, angry, excited.
I was astounded as I watched Toby learn simple actions such as throwing a toy. If he had never been subjected to an example of such behaviour, would he ever have learned it? Watching a baby develop from the usual outside perspective is interesting enough, but when you can feel the simple but rapid brain process first hand the experience was undoubtedly taken to another level.

Weeks went by and I wondered how long this mental occupation would last for. I began to miss having a mind to myself.
Months went buy and I wondered if I was ever to return to my own body – my own life. I wondered how I would return to my old existence. As I did not understand what had happened to get me here, finding a way to return seemed like an impossible task. I became sick of observing and decided that if I was to be inside the mind of this child, I may as well make it beneficial for the both of us.
Years went by and I gave up hope of returning to my previous life, accepting this shared mind as my own. The shared mind became my own. We coincided almost oblivious to the other's presence. Processes were shared, but it was done seamlessly, so neither one of us had to concentrate one who was controlling what. It just happened. We practically stopped being 'we' and became 'I'. Sebastian Gould was lost and replaced with an enhanced version of Toby King.


Chapter IV
As you can no doubt imagine, when the time did come for learning speech, going to school, writing and drawing, I excelled in every aspect. The consciousness that had once been the baby's was so closely knit with my own that my knowledge regarding these areas was absorbed without the need to learn individually. This unavoidably led to my proclamation as a genius child. My name was on the news, in magazines and on the Internet: Toby King, the young Einstein. Rita, my mother, couldn't have been happier with the situation. She was proud beyond words of her only son and had money flowing in from countless interviews and television appearances. We were from our new luxurious inner-city house together for one of these television appearances when something very important happened.
There I was, holding Rita's hand fondly as we walked along the busy street when I saw a man in a business suit crossing the road holding a small cardboard box in one hand. Not just any small box, but a box of do-it-yourself hair dye. I stopped walking, now aware once again of the intellectual duality. This renewed awareness led to an interruption in the connection between us, resulting an absurd spasm-like movement that had Rita kneeling down to our head level in concern.
Toby King was not who I was. In a sense Toby King was who I had become, but I had no right to interfere with this boy's life. It was his own, to do with it what he will. The path through sentience was his to decide. I felt racked with guilt for interfering. The beauty in life came from one's ability to make decisions for one's self. I thought of my previous life: one only chooses to become nothing more than a cog in the machine.
A pang of pain hit my stomach and we bent over double. Rita's panicked voice was the last thing I heard before blacking out.


Chapter V
I slowly and groggily regained consciousness to find myself sitting on a train. I instantly looked around for Rita, but she was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, I reached out to Toby to see if he had any idea where we were, but there was no response. My hand instantly flew to my face to be greeted with the once familiar feel of a few days stubble.
I had returned to the life of Sebastian Gould. How could this be? What had happened to Toby? My first thought was to go straight to his house and check that he was OK, but after giving the idea more thought I understood that I could not return to them. Instead, I must return to my own life. I had no idea what would have happened to Lori in my absence, so I set off straight to our old apartment to find out.

It was like being returned to a past life after reincarnation. Everything was almost alien again, but still so very familiar. I reached the apartment door and knocked hesitantly. I heard footsteps from inside and as I heard them approach I grew unexpectedly nervous.
When Lori saw me standing at the door she turned white and closed it again. I stood, not knowing what to think. Not knowing what else to do, I waited and then knocked again.
There were no footsteps this time, but the door opened slowly. Her head poked through the gap and an arm came through to touch me on the wrist. Seemingly satisfied that I was material after all, she opened the door fully, though still apparently speechless.
I asked her politely if I could come in. She didn't respond verbally, but gave a queer half nod and moved out of my way. Figuring that I probably shouldn't expect more than that after eight years of no contact, I walked down the hallway, eagerly awaiting a sit in my favourite chair. I was dismayed to find that things inside the apartment were quite different, but was confronted the most by a picture of Lori and another man sitting on the mantelpiece. I chose an inferior chair and half sat, half collapsed into it.
How could I have been so foolish? Did I really think that she would have waited patiently for me to return home? The last time she saw me was when she turned off the lamp and crept into bed. Any reasonable person would think me dead.

I spoke with Lori for many hours. When I left eight years ago she had no idea what had happened to me. Distressed, she had called the police and filed a missing persons report. Of course, they had never found anything. There had not been a funeral; relatives similarly had no idea what to think, so decided just to attempt to forget about it and continue on with their lives. Once I would have found this news highly insulting, but it did not bother me.
She said that Richard (the man in the picture) was a member of the investigation team into my disappearance and that they were now together. The nature of the mystery was exactly what the media thrived on, so it had been on the news and in the papers – at one point directly opposite an article about Toby King.
After she had finished telling me of her life in my absence, she sat silently, obviously expecting me to share what had happened to me. I looked at her, took a deep breath and began.
As I told my story to Lori I watched her expression turn from that of curiosity and focus, to disbelief and anger. I didn't expect her to accept the veracity of my tale without question, but I did at least hope that she would suspend their scepticism out of respect until I was able to fully explain. As usual, I had overestimated her maturity – or maybe no one was that open-minded. Either way, it was clear that I could no longer be with her. She was with another man and that was not the lifestyle that I desired now, anyway. I said my final farewells to her and left the way I came.


Chapter VI
The way that I was transferred inside the mind of Toby was never revealed to me. I guess after being returned to my own body I expected it to be disclosed that I had been a participant in some reality TV show for higher beings, or something along those lines. I chuckled to myself as a title came to mind, "Body Swap." A show for those who have long become sick of watching drama unfold as two maternal figures exchange places.
One thing I was sure of was my new lease for life. I had not been 'stuck' in my former lifestyle; it was a choice. For me it was clear what I wanted to do now. I had returned to my own life with an unprecedented appreciation for the simplicities of existence. There may not be a bigger purpose for our individual lives, but purpose can be self-imposed and offer an adequate sense of satisfaction.
Working in a childcare centre gave me that sense of satisfaction that I had been looking for. I couldn't think of a more fulfilling occupation than aiding human beings just starting off in life to find their feet, to learn to learn and to pursue whatever in life makes them feel happy. I realised that the last of these goals would probably be lost on infants, but that didn't worry me too much. For the first time in countless years, I, Sebastian Gould, was happy.