23 November 2007
There are two distinct views on the meaning of Time.
One view is that Time is part of the fundamental structure of the universe, a dimension in which events occur in sequence, and Time itself is something that can be measured. This is the realist's view, to which Sir Isaac Newton subscribed, and hence is sometimes referred to as Newtonian Time.
A contrasting view is that Time is part of the fundamental human intellectual structure (together with space and number) within which we sequence events, quantify the duration of events and the intervals between them, and compare the motions of objects. In this second view, Time does not refer to any kind of entity that "flows", that objects "move through", or that is a "container" for events, but that Time, rather than being an objective thing to be measured, is part of the measuring system used by humans. 
He needed the fuck out. Not out of this room, or this town, or even this state of mind, but out. Just fucking out. He could feel the urge to leave seeping into every pore of his being, not because he wanted to run away from something, but because he had for too long run away from himself.
He became a narrative voice dictating to my fingers, the one speaking for me. I stared at the words written out before me. He had only just written them, but I was barely able to remember their origin. The feeling of urgency he felt, the quick glances over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed, the nervous twitch over his left eye, these things became my feelings of urgency at the lateness of the hour, my quick glances over the shoulder and into the dark corners of the room. I felt a twitch above my left eye that had only moments before been words. Was I being followed? Had I had this feeling of urgency moments before? Was I not now feeling the urge to flee from this self I had become, to flee away from this place that I, and in turn, he, had come to call home? Did I not shake with fear at familiar faces I could not recall, or hear the sounds of someone calling a name I might have once been known by?
I could not remember the day or the hour that this urge to flee had come upon me, or if it had been my own or someone else's. I could only recall something I had read, though could not remember, which only strengthened this resolve, made my decision seem sane, at least to my mind. I had to go, get the fuck out and not look back over my shoulder no matter how strong the urge to do so made me shudder as though cold, and made the spot above my left eye twitch uncontrollably. Suddenly, it felt as though Time had become an enemy I could no longer ignore. Time became something I must court into the small hours of the night, holding it close to me though I could feel my flesh rotting away, feel my teeth falling out, and all that I held dear turning to dust. Time told me to get on with My LIfe, away from this and you, away from all that I held dear to me...
and I had no choice but to listen...
Posted by L'Immoraliste at 2:11 AM