You’re stuck in traffic, staring at a Corolla that’s clearly seen the full existential arc of a used car. Time slows to the pace of bureaucracy, the radio tortures you with a song you despise but now know by heart. Your heart skips—like when you ate Milo straight from the tin as a child. You become acutely aware: this is life. Time, in its relentless absurdity, marches on while you wonder if you left the stove on.
This is the metaphysics of time.
It is obviously present that time itself is not infinite, as the eventual fate is earth being served on a cosmic platter to the sun just like it was freshly dished out some 72 billion weeks ago (ahm the big bang).
Yet it is truly amazing, the absurdity of the general population striding through life in their own self-imposed delusion that they are exempted of this cold truth, only to be fully awaken when slapped with the cold diagnosis of cancer or dementia and the reality of laying on a trolley with a blue grown exposing our butt cheeks.
One day it’s a Corolla. The next, a coffin. Did you use the time, or just wait to be served?