John A.

What is the correct approach to time?

This question is not posed to be answered, at least not in any traditional sense. Instead, it is meant to be explored, cut open, examined, and reassembled, not to conclude, but to see. Like a blade sharpening against the bone of a question, I want to feel the resistance of time’s many layers, its illusions, its truths, its unknowable aspects.

The Societal Clock: Agreement as Reality

Most of us live by the consensus clock. We rise at seven, work by nine, eat at noon. Time becomes a shared fiction, one powerful enough to organize civilizations. Millions, perhaps billions, agree to live within this structure. Is this agreement the most authentic way to live within time, or merely the most convenient, a concession to coordination rather than a reflection of truth?

This is an effective way in which one can collaborate with others, and many of us truly internalize this, moving wholeheartedly with the beat of society’s clock, thriving at this rhythm and making the most of it. Others fail to meet the challenge, but instead of viewing the status quo as imposing and totalitarian, they view themselves incomplete and deficient, proving that they have also internalized this shared reality with intent.

What would it look like to reject this consensus? Not in rebellion, but in contemplation. Could one live outside of agreed-upon time? Monks, ascetics, and the digitally disconnected offer glimpses of such alternatives. Their days always follow a pattern, the sun, their biological rhythms. But even here, time is present, only the frame has changed. It is obvious that they can only connect with those they meet in between, almost like two strangers interacting while on transit in the airport, each carrying their own destination, their own temporality. These moments are fleeting, unsynchronized yet profound, shared fragments of existence carved out of fundamentally divergent timelines. There is something achingly human about these brief collisions. In these encounters, we are forced to ask, is it the duration of time we share that matters, or the intensity of presence within it? What is the experience of the one who lets go? The one who chooses to interact with the world only when it feels natural to him, operating by his own rhythm rather than a shared schedule, reaching out into the current not because the hour dictates it, but because presence compels it. What does he gain in freedom, spontaneity, or clarity? And what does he lose? Is it structure, predictability, or perhaps a shared identity?

Does this person perceive himself as truly independent, a sovereign entity outside the gravitational pull of collective time? Or does he, unknowingly, adopt another pattern, perhaps becoming the night owl, the drifter, one whose identity is still shaped by time, just differently framed? In releasing one order, does he take on another? Does he lose a part of himself, or does he discover it?

How fluid is the self when the clock is removed? Is time not only a social or physical framework, but a psychological scaffold on which we build our sense of continuity and coherence? To drop it, even partially, is to experiment with the boundaries of self-hood.

The Physicist’s Time: A Wobbly Dimension

Physicists have long wrestled with time as a dimension, and more recently, have begun to question if it even qualifies as one. Unlike the three spatial dimensions, time appears to flow in only one direction, a phenomenon tightly coupled with the second law of thermodynamics and the concept of entropy. Yet in the mathematical formulations of physical laws, such as in quantum mechanics or classical mechanics, time often enters equations in a way that is completely symmetrical, meaning the laws would function identically even if time were reversed.

This paradox deepens in the context of Minkowski spacetime, a framework introduced in the wake of Einstein’s special relativity, in which time is fused with the three spatial dimensions to form a unified four-dimensional manifold. Here, time does not ‘flow’; but rather, all moments coexist as part of a static structure often referred to as the block universe. In this view, the past, present, and future are equally real, and the sensation of time passing is a feature of consciousness, not physics.

If one were to incorporate this model into daily life, what would that look like? Would it mean embracing determinism, letting go of the illusion of becoming, and seeing oneself as a static entity traversing a fixed timeline? Does this mode of operation inherently conflict with the concept of free will? Is the trade-off of exchanging ambiguity, choice, and emotion for unyielding determinism, a necessary consequence of embracing the block universe? Or is it merely a hypothetical tension that arises when translating abstract models into human terms? Or would such a model conveniently remain purely conceptual, forever estranged from the phenomenology of human experience? Confined to the whiteboard and the abstract world of equations, accepting, perhaps even embracing, the idea that empirical experience may not align with objective truth, and that this dissonance is not only tolerable, but potentially meaningful.

Some physicists, like Julian Barbour, argue that time doesn’t exist at all, proposing that the universe is made up of a series of static “nows”, configurations of the universe that exist independently of any temporal flow. In contrast, physicists like Carlo Rovelli advocate for a relational understanding of time, where time emerges only through interactions between physical systems, not as a fundamental backdrop. Others, such as Sean Carroll, defend the existence of time while acknowledging its emergent nature, suggesting that time arises from entropy and the statistical behavior of systems rather than being a basic constituent of reality. Others cling to time as necessary for causality, emphasizing its role in linking events through cause and effect. Without time, they argue, there can be no coherent sequence, no evolution, no narrative. On the other hand, in Stephen Wolfram’s concept of time, the theory reimagines time not as a passive backdrop, but as an active computational process. This model holds particular philosophical weight because it invites us to see each moment not as part of a flow, but as a consequence of discrete informational updates. He proposes that time is not a fundamental dimension, but an emergent phenomenon resulting from the progression of computational steps in a hypergraph-based system. Time, in this view, is not something that “flows” independently, it is what happens when computation occurs. In essence, time is the sequence of updates to an underlying computational substrate, a dynamic unfolding not of flowing moments, but of successive informational transformations.

If one were to live according to this framework, would it imply viewing every state of consciousness as a transition in a rule-based process? How would this alter our sense of agency, continuity, or meaning? And finally, if science itself remains divided on the nature of time, what does it mean to build one’s life upon such shifting foundations?

Can a life be stable when its scaffolding is uncertain? Can meaning endure when its metric is unresolved? This lingering uncertainty is not a flaw in the question, but a feature of our existence. Perhaps to live thoughtfully is to live inside that tension, not with answers, but with awareness.

The Psychedelic View: The Absence of Time

Psychedelics like LSD and psilocybin induce experiences in which time either dissolves or becomes nonlinear. Users speak of existing in eternal moments, or experiencing entire lifetimes in minutes. These altered states suggest that our normal perception of time is far from fixed, and may not be essential.

Could this be a more authentic engagement with time? Or is it merely a neurological anomaly, fascinating but ultimately ungrounded?

Imagine a life structured around the insights of these experiences: less schedule, more presence. Less concern for past and future, more immersion in now. Is that sustainable, or would it unravel without the anchor of conventional time? What would this unraveling look like? Imagine waking with no reference to hours or calendars, actions dictated only by internal rhythms and environmental cues. Meals occur not at noon, but when hunger arrives. Work happens not from nine to five, but during moments of spontaneous clarity. Sleep visits without resistance, regardless of daylight or darkness.

In one version of this life, the person becomes deeply attuned to the present, cultivating a state of flow that favors intuition over obligation. Time becomes a sensation, not a measurement. But in another version, things fray: appointments are missed, relationships strained, goals blurred. The lack of external structure may lead not to freedom, but to drift.

Or perhaps the opposite emerges: new patterns arise organically, unmeasured but stable. A life not without rhythm, but without the tyranny of the clock. Could this foster a more genuine sense of time, one rooted in being rather than counting?

What would happen to memory, identity, and story when there are no time stamps to hold them in place?

Without temporal anchors, memory may lose its narrative arc. We remember not just events, but their order, this happened before that, this caused that, I was this kind of person then, and now I am this. Strip away chronology, and what remains? Perhaps isolated impressions, drifting moments, sensations without sequence.

Identity, too, leans heavily on continuity. We tell ourselves stories of becoming, of growth, decline, recovery, transformation. But if all moments exist simultaneously or if time collapses into an eternal now, can we still claim to be changing? Or do we become mosaics, composed of coexisting fragments rather than evolving selves?

And what of story? Narratives depend on time to build tension, to resolve arcs, to distinguish beginning from end. A life without time may resist storytelling altogether. It may favor image over plot, state over sequence. Could a timeless person even recognize their own reflection, not in a mirror, but in memory?

Time as Attention

What would it mean to live with conviction, to engage with the present moment fully, not to avoid deeper inquiry, but as an intentional mode of being? This is not about fleeing the weight of time’s complexities, but about choosing presence as a stance, a guiding principle in a world where time often feels imposed rather than inhabited. A mode where one is unencumbered by the metaphysical weight of time because their priority is to show up, to be present, and to engage with others meaningfully and punctually. This is time not as measurement or illusion, but a particular moment labeled as now, one in which attention is required and happily given, in a deliberate, purposeful way. As if time were a computational registry, and the moment labeled ‘now’ demands full attention to be recorded. If attention is withheld, the moment risks being lost forever, discarded before it can be registered into the unfolding pattern of reality. Only through attention is it added to the registry.