Monday, June 9, 2014


My sense of time has always been blurry. When people make sharp distinctions between past, present and future i feel bewildered. Not because i inhabit atemporality or am muddled in my mind but because time itself, despite its passage, retractions and coiling back, remains ineffable. Even a putative linear propulsion baffles me because history is not complicit with time. It inveigles itself in the present and gets replicated. History seems to testify, for me, the circuitousness of time than its onward progression. Time progresses anyway, time progresses any way .

Ruminating on time often led to deliberations on memory. The instant when i experienced the experience i embalmed it. Each time i recollected the experience i found the coordinates constituting that experience realigning, shifting. Sometimes an aspect was centralized and focused on, other times another aspect was highlighted and emphasized. Could the experience though, experienced when it was, said to be unaltered, inviolable? I sense, though my hypothesis is nebulous that the crystallization of what we call experience is actually a configurable moment in time, internalized yet capable of metamorphosis. That instant in time is like a snapshot, it freezes random causality but not experience. Experience is the aftermath, the ceaseless living through of that captured moment, with all the variegated dimensions.

Sometimes the instant freezes , leached of significance. In that sense the eventality  is accreted but never experienced, never resolved. A photograph is, in its unvarying monochromatic nature, rather inalterable unless each glance, with a different context, reactivates the emotional significations it precipitates.

But to go back in time, to time, with time and by time i dwell on time again. I am by no means suggesting that inner time as bergson talks about, is the only  inescapable human reality. I am suggesting that time itself is indeterminate. When i think of the cosmos i find each instant of earthly time dwindling into infinitesimal nothingness. With cosmic time the journey is backwards, to a locatable ontology while mortal time is ,on the surface of it, forwards. To transcend the banal mortal a metaphysical is experienced, traversed as retroactive memory and blended with the present. This present, imbued with the encrustations of the past, informs the future. The future is irradiated by the present which, in turn is enriched by the past. Thus there is no chronology, i feel, to time but the dappling of time with experience. It is experience which deepens, intensifies and dictates the rhythm of the temporal. The temporal, by itself, is a blankness, an emptiness. Experience is the hieroglyph etched onto time. Thus time, which is ostensibly linear, at least outwardly is crenellated with experience which is retroactive. With time and experience intersecting, causality itself becomes consciousness.And consciousness, in all forms, is life. 

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