Time? What is it? Does it flow around us, a mysterious, murky liquid of a concept? Does it flow at all, a constant current of life’s demarcation? Or, is it a perception necessary to organize the insanity of our daily existence? I have no idea. I do ask the question and ponder the possibilities.
Concretized time ticks away somewhere in Greenwich, UK. That is the standard, like gold. Yet, as we evolve in our views of the universe, standards melt away and truth becomes the malleable wax image covered in clay used to create the mold of an object far more enduring.
Time, if viewed as a treadmill, is it the actual machine or the poor schmuck who runs but goes nowhere? That is how I feel, my life prior to 1989 a puzzle whose pieces have been tossed in the air and let to fall in a jumble on the ground. Can time stand still? Can it stagnate? Does it move at differing paces?
Set two Timex watches for the exact same time. Attach one to the wrist of a man sitting in Manhattan. Attach the other to an Astronaut voyaging the cosmos at light speed. Let two hours pass on the watch of the astronaut and the Manhattanite has been dust for more than a century. Time then is a relative term used to describe the micro. The concept can never encompass the macro.
So, time, I spin verbiage on this topic like a sixteen year old boy in a muscle car on a snowy day. The wheels turn at high RPMs with little forward momentum. Time exists for each of us as a tool to map a day, an hour or a moment, but can it be sliced and diced exactly the same for each individual? No.
I have existed where all moments of time bisect one another, existing as one yet spread out across eternity. My understanding of time is personal, dissimilar to any other individual’s experience. So, why these ramblings on Time?
After twenty years of dreaming, why does Oliver never age? Answer me that.