Time is not a river that flows, nor a shadow that lengthens, nor an inevitable march that consumes us. Time is a formless abyss, a vast expanse of dimmed lights, where every moment is a seed that never sprouts. It is neither past nor future, but a present that does not exist, an image that fades as we look at it. We live it as though it were a companion, a teacher, but in reality, it is a child who does not know its own face.
Every instant that slips away has never been, will never be, yet continues to dance in the folds of an illusion. We delude ourselves into measuring it with our breath, holding it in our hands, but time, like a dream that vanishes at dawn, does not belong to us.
The true miracle of time is not its passage, but its lack of passage. It is like an unseen face, a memory that recalls nothing. If each second were truly a portion of space, energy, or matter, then we could touch it. But time cannot be touched, cannot be grasped. It exists without ever existing, and this is its secret, its eternal poetry: it has never been here, yet it makes us be. It has never been ours, yet it possesses us.
This is why every man, every artist, every poet and philosopher who has tried to explain time has failed, not because time is incomprehensible, but because it does not exist. We need nothing to understand it, for time cannot be understood, only lived. Every attempt to define it is like trying to grasp the infinite with a hand too small to contain it.
Thus, in our eternal search to comprehend time, we forget one truth: we are never truly outside of time, nor inside it. We are its whisper, its echo that never ceases to resound. And this, perhaps, is the only truth that can survive all words, concepts, and reflections.
