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Time, a Metaphorical Representation

The river flowed definitively through the lush fields. It was not bound by any banks but flowed above the surface, without spilling. Its path was erratic at best, taking wild turns across the landscape and ranging in breadth from a microscopic vein to an ocean. At times the river would slow to a trickle and branch outward to irrigate the greenery; without warning it would become a raging torrent, rising to a dome that gave shade from the punishing sun. The river remained untouched for many years, branching throughout existence until there remained no place where at least the smallest capillary had penetrated. In these places the river had less influence and the crop’s growth was stunted until the small capillary became an artery from the heart of the river.

All objects benefited from the river, from the lowliest organism to the most precious stones. The river was neither perfect nor clear, as one could not see the bottom (although it is doubtful that it exists). The water was also thick with mud, sand and other masses that floated regularly across the surface. These masses passed so regularly that they gave the appearance of a pulse to the river. One might think that this was the origin of time, that these masses somehow ticked the very first second, but this is not true as the river had diverged infinitely, with each branch of each conduit receiving regular, random masses. No, time lay far in the future where such words would be coined.

The river was almost a creature unto itself; it fed no ocean and was not sustained by a delta. The river had hearts in many universes, galaxies, and planets, and all were connected directly to the heart and thus to each other. The river did not discriminate among its limbs just as a living creature does not allocate different types of blood to different organs.

Each advancement and leap in the creatures’ knowledge was accompanied by a reproach of slightly greater magnitude by the river. This pattern continued forever until the creatures finally won; they finally had control over the river. A filter was placed at the heart of the river; it sifted, cleaned, sanitized, killed the river which became a clear fluid except for the comparably dark lines of soil that passed when the filter lifted regularly. Just as mortals today dream of immortality, so did the eternal creatures who searched for something greater than their dependence on the river even before they poisoned it. The river is now nothing more than a pipe, bound more harshly than its natural counterparts as it runs laterally across everything.

So we are left today with a disgustingly pure time, which by its very label negates the idea of the river’s purpose. Rather than drink from its glorious flaws, we filter it with clocks and experience life vicariously through the pendulum which is more alive than us.

Wisdom is Public

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