Chapter 1Plastic Time Machines

There are things you won’t remember from childhood—and then there are things your nervous system remembers forever.

You might forget a teacher’s name, but you remember the feel of a vinyl cape in your hand. You might not recall the menu at your birthday party, but you remember the moment you chose a lunchbox like it was a passport.

That’s because those weren’t just toys. They were allies. Little portable reminders that you weren’t powerless. That you could build worlds. That problems could be solved, villains could be faced, and heroes could show up right on schedule.

For me, it started with those 1970s Mego heroes—Superman, Batman, Robin—never perfect likenesses, but perfect meaning. I didn’t know it then, but they were installing a kind of internal defense system: wonder, play, adventure. A steady signal that said, “You’re still you.”

And the wild part? I wasn’t “clinging” to toys. I was building language. A symbolic code made of plastic and paint, stories and silence. Those figures encoded values into me before I had words for them. They trained me—creatively, emotionally, spiritually.

That’s why the memories hit like they do. The scent of vinyl. The sound of a cape swish. The pop of packaging. These aren’t just sensory details—they’re doorways.

Because no matter how far we travel from those early years, the toys remember where we started. And if you let them, they’ll help you find your way back—without forcing you to live in the past.

They don’t exist to trap you. They exist to return you to your own spark.

Now, Go Play!