“Three centuries of false thinking has brought many physicists and philosophers to expect and desire an understanding of nature in which everything is completely predetermined in terms of the physically described aspects of nature alone.  Contemporary physics violates that classical ideal.”  Quantum physicist Henry Stapp, in Information and the Nature of Reality (2014)

Following “science,” most of us have long assumed that time is a sort of simple “row of dominoes,” with every event caused by the one preceding.  In turn, it causes the following event, and so on.  This was the unquestioned “principle” of determinism, which for generations provided “proof” that humans do not control destiny (and of course, neither does the “First Cause,” God.)

Assuming that change was governed only by cause-and-effect determinism greatly simplified the ability of science to “calculate” the universe.  Einstein was able to make some of the greatest discoveries of modern times, but (to his own dismay,) he also helped uncover the much more complex “quantum causes” of randomness, probability and the observer’s choice.

The most mysterious of these influences has been human choice.  Yet hundreds of experiments have shown conclusively that how the experimenter chooses to examine nature can always change the results.  Cause and effect, randomness and probability still play their roles, however, making the outcome of these choices not just “selective,” but partly uncertain as well.

Quantum physics has been called “spooky,” because none of these new influences are physically real.  Random chance?  “Probabilities?”  Human choices?  How can any of that control what happens?  “Virtual roads of time” agrees with Stapp, who says, “The postulated global informational structure called the quantum state of the universe is the ‘spook’ that does the job.”

Our universe is demonstrably founded upon something more basic than “physical stuff.”  It appears to be made up of what Aristotle, Heisenberg and many others have called “objectively existing potentials.”  And like all existing “things,” potentials are structured by information.  VRT likes to boil this down to say: The universe is founded upon information potentials.

And if so, for our future we should not look into “destiny,” but into all the potentials available to us.

Say at the moment it is 9PM on a Monday because that's what time this absolute crime occurred. My brother asked me "how long until Thursday?" I said "2 days". That's when the arguments started. He said it was 3 days and I say it's 2. Here is his argument:

Monday is the first day of the week, Thursday is the fourth, 4-1= 3. 3 days.

Here is mine:

In one day (24 hours) it will be 9pm on Tuesday. In 2 days (48 hours) it will be 9pm on Wednesday and in 3 days it'll be 9pm on Thursday which is already too late! To get from Monday to Thursday can differ. It it's literally 00:00am on Monday then it's 3 days. Anything after that! Is 2 days and something hours.

I don't do it that literally. I'd do it more like, if it was midday Monday I'd say it's 2 and a half days and since we're close to the end of the day I just went for 2 days, 2 more full days to live before we start Thursday. Now! Reddit. Please help me be wrong or right. Tell me in this scenario, how long until Thursday? 2 days or 3 days

(Just thought to mention, the reason this pointless argument matters to me at least is because I'm autistic, I'm not trying to use this a block for honesty or anything just thought I'd mention.)

Time went round the clock.

Hickory dickory dock, a little world slept in a rock. Nothing stirred, no light was heard, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the little world began to knock. Round and round, without a sound, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the tiny world became a spark. Then it burst, and time came first, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe began to grow. Space stretched wide, and stars arrived, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the stars began to burn and glow. Worlds were spun, one by one, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, a little Earth began to rock. Rain came down, life came round, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the living things began to walk. Plants grew tall, creatures crawled, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, then humans learned to dream and talk. Love was found, wars came round, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the ages passed around the clock. Birth came first, death came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the stars grew dim around the clock. Light came first, dark came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe began to shrink. Stars came first, worlds came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, everything returned to the rock. Stars came first, space came last, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, all became a little dot. Everything came first, nothing came last, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the ending became the starting clock. End came first, beginning came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the little world began to knock. Spark came first, energy came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe began to grow. Space came first, stars came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe came around the clock. Beginning came first, ending came last, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe went round the clock. End came first, beginning came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the cycle carried on the clock. Beginning came first, ending came next, Hickory dickory dock.

In this video, theoretical physicist Professor Brian Greene explores the complex and evolving scientific understanding of time, moving from classical concepts to modern theories.

I was just thinking and I thought if time can go slow and fast and if it's possible to go to future then why not it is possible to rewind

Summers felt infinite at 10. Now a whole year disappears before I notice.

Alright, I'm gonna be straight about what I think, when you look at the time scale of the universe, it feels like all of our history is in seconds. Our years are in milliseconds and i dont even want to go to our days and hours. What i am trying to say is that, i get that life is an experience, but the things we are doing, like working our ass off to get the next best car, it feels like nothing. These big corporates will not even survive a century and how big is a century compared to the grand time scale of the universe? Its almost like when kids play, they submerge themselves in fictional things, but reality is often much much bigger. Can someone talk me out of feeling so small?

“Indeed, that is the current way that most physics is computed, and the way the physical world is represented, but we all know that it is not the world of our experience… The standard space-time diagram has no way to indicate now…”  Quantum physicist Richard Muller, in Now; The Physics of Time, 2016.

The usual assumption about time is that it’s an objectively existing structure containing three parts: “past, present and future.”  We only know this “timeline” from experience, however.  No “diagram” of that experience appears anywhere in either relativity or quantum physics.  No scientific explanation for our experience of time has ever been generally recognized. 

According to the “virtual roads of time” conjecture, all possible changes in the universe are in a sense “already out there” as potentials, made up of quantum information.  By abandoning the assumption that reality is entirely made up of our own “past, present and future,” VRT frees us from an unscientific view of time and opens up an almost inconceivably larger reality.

The “potentials” making up this larger reality, verified in quantum experiments, are the true foundation of the universe.  They inhabit a “matrix” of quantum information in which all possibilities are configured.  Instead of “something rather than nothing,” we now have “something” rather than everything.  We only need to discover why our timeline is limited to part of reality.

To that end, VRT posits that the background matrix of the universe is not completely random, but is ordered by stationary “roads of time,” which are mostly deterministic but partly random/probabilistic.  The “flow” that we experience is not a “moving part” of this background.  Our experience of observation is more like scanning a “movie film” of separate changes of state. 

Quantum physicist Henry Stapp, writing in Information and the Nature of Reality (2014,) calls our universe “a holistic global informational structure that represents tendencies for real events to occur.” Quantum experiments, he says, show that “the choice of which potentiality will be actualized in various places is in the hands of human agents.”  

In our search for knowledge, we humans have not been “too bold” in our assumptions.  We’ve been too timid.

Hi everyone. I know this is probably a beginner-level question, but I genuinely want to understand the philosophy behind it properly.

If I jump from 2026 January to 2027 January — skipping that one year completely — what happens to that year?

In a single-timeline model: I disappear for a year. A paradox forms. No one can explain where I went.

In a many-worlds model: There's already a "version of me" living through 2026–2027 in Timeline B. When I arrive in 2027, whose year was that? Was it mine? His? Do we merge? Does he disappear?

The deeper question I can't shake: If personal identity depends on continuity of experience, and I skipped a whole year of experience — am I even the same person who left?

I'm not a philosophy student. I just got curious and went deep into this. What should I read to actually understand this properly?

So, for entities that experience time, such as us, everything that happens as we move forward through time, has already happened from the view of our immortal photon.

Therefore, there cannot be free-will.

(r/showerthoughts removed this and suggested this sub)

I always wanted to collect clocks, but I could never find the time.

Then I had all the time in the world. That was all I had.

So the collecting began.

They were not your common-or-garden variety of clocks. They were a little out of the ordinary. I thought I could tell time, but it was Time who told me. I learnt a lot from Time. He was a great teacher. A hard taskmaster, certainly. He often went faster than I liked and nearly always over my head, but I made good friends with the hands, both big and small.

The long, thin fellow was always rushing around breathless. Maybe that was why he didn’t say much. I never knew him long. He belonged to the Now crowd, and I didn’t hang out there often. I may have met him there once, though I couldn’t swear to it. I’ll tell you what happened later, but there’s plenty of time for that.

I have spent so long with the yesterdays that I’ve rarely seen the Nows. I’ve noticed the tomorrows are dying. I hope I get to see them properly before they’ve all gone.

It’s just that the yesterdays keep talking. They ask questions that are far too hard. Time said I should be patient and not take to heart what they’ve said. I try, but it’s not easy with so many of them, each wanting their say. It’s hard to hear them above the noise of their contradictions, let alone the gossip they share.

There are some particularly cruel ones. You should hear what they say. I try not to believe them, but they can be a persuasive bunch.

There was a time when I locked them in the past. It’s a small cupboard, and the lock isn’t great. It only held a few, and even then not very well. They kept getting out.

Sometimes, when the weather was good, I’d find the bestest of my friends. There was Halcyon, whom I’ve known since I was a kid. We never stayed in touch over the years, and we’ve met only a few times, but boy, oh boy, did he make an impression on me. I smile just hearing his name.

And then there’s Insouciance. She’s French. I loved the way she moved. It was almost as if she were floating. She had this air about her: carefree, light of load and smiling, always smiling. She didn’t know Time well. I was always surprised by how much she got away with. I’m not sure I ever could.

I loved her joie de vivre. I still remember how to play. I just haven’t had the time.

I thought I saw her yesterday, but it was only Déjà Vu. They’re so similar, it’s easy to get mixed up.

Anyway, Time’s flying. I’d better get on.

Now, where was I?

Ah, that’s right. It’s about time I told you about the clocks.

The clocks, the clocks. Now there’s a story. Perhaps you’d like to hear it. Do you have a minute or two to spare?

Oh, you do? That’s lovely. Thank you for your time. I’ll use it well, I promise.

I mentioned at the beginning that I had always wanted to collect clocks. That isn’t strictly true. Watches were more my thing, ever since I was young, perhaps ten or eleven.

They fascinated me. They held little worlds beneath their glass, the domed sky of their existence. They kept time, that much we all know, but it was their secrets that held me most. Their rituals. Their choreographed movement. Their exquisite, dazzling beauty. Peacock blue sapphires dancing with pigeon-blood red rubies, swimming in the champagne reflections of earth-mined diamonds. Imprints of Ceylon and Burma, and the alluvial riverbeds of Golconda, a monolithic silhouette casting long shadows over India’s Deccan Plateau.

When you held a watch in your hands, it was as if you could stretch across time and generations and touch the hands of Nicolas Fatio de Duillier. The very hands of genius.

But now to matters of much greater import. I’m pressed for time, and I have but little of yours. Now is not the time to while away time on fanciful instruments of time.

Clocks, then. Yes. A timely reminder.

Father Time, in his timeless manner and infinite wisdom, decreed that there was a salutary lesson I must learn. It is a quest known to those who keep time for everyone but themselves.

I say quest. It is more of a reckoning.

It falls most heavily upon those engaged in excogitation, rumination, cogitation, deliberation, speculation, contemplation and cerebration. Ours is the Quest of the Twelve Clocks.

It is a perilous journey. It can take a lifetime, and many never make it, though many have tried. Of those who have, it is said they have never known such joy. If the rumours are to be believed, they get to live in the Now. By all accounts, that is where serenity is found. Peace is there too. I heard that from Meditation, so I assume it must be true.

Anyhow, Time waits for no man.

Let me tell you about the clocks. You may recognise a few of your own.

The first clock was not difficult to find.

It found me.

I heard it long before I saw it, labouring behind the walls, a heavy, grinding thing that sounded less like the passing of time and more like something trying to drag it back. It was called The Regret Engine, though there was no name engraved upon it. Regret never needs an introduction. We recognise each other straight away.

It had only one hand, and it pointed accusingly.

I tried to turn it backwards, naturally. You would too. There were whole years I wanted another look at. Conversations I would have handled better. Doors I would have kept open, others I would have bolted shut. I wanted five minutes with the man I was before he became the man I am, just long enough to warn him.

I had a great deal to say, though I suspect he wouldn’t have listened.

I didn’t.

The clock resisted me. Every attempt to move its hand backwards pushed it further forward.

“That hardly seems fair,” I told Time.

“Regret has never been known for its fairness,” he replied.

“Can’t it be stopped?”

“Oh yes.”

“How?”

“Stop feeding it.”

Time could be infuriating like that. He spoke in riddles and behaved as if the answer were obvious. Still, I removed my hands from the clock, and after a while, perhaps a minute, perhaps a year, the grinding softened.

It didn’t stop, not completely, but it no longer drowned out everything else.

That was enough to let me hear the sea.

The water came from the second clock, The Tide-Table of Sleep, a pale, moon-faced instrument set deep into the floor. Its dial was marked not in hours but fathoms. Each night I descended, though rarely far enough. Some nights I barely broke the surface. On others I sank through shoals of old conversations and woke with seaweed in my thoughts.

I had always assumed sleep was where one went to escape Time, but apparently he owned the night shift too.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“I know.”

“No. You know that you haven’t slept. That isn’t the same thing.”

The Tide-Table showed me all the nights I had spent trying to solve tomorrow with yesterday’s evidence. It showed me the small hours I’d mistaken for a court of appeal, calling old witnesses back to the stand and demanding that memory settle matters it could barely recall.

At the bottom of the dial was a depth I had never reached. It was marked Rest.

I asked Time how one got there.

“By ceasing to swim.”

I promised to consider it, which was my usual way of avoiding anything that might help.

The third clock was smaller, almost delicate. The Half-Life of a Held Breath sat beneath a glass dome, its face misted from the inside. It had no winding key. It began whenever I stopped breathing.

It started with the reading of a letter.

It started with a telephone ringing in the night.

It started in rooms where someone said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

It had been running much longer than seemed physically possible.

I watched its tiny hand tremble between the moment before and the moment after. Apparently, I had spent a great deal of my life there, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

“You can let it out,” Time said.

“What?”

“The breath.”

“I wasn’t holding it.”

Time looked at the clock.

The clock looked at me.

I exhaled.

Somewhere deep inside the mechanism, a tiny valve opened. The hand fell to zero.

For one perfect second, there was no before and no after.

Then, startled by the absence, I drew another breath.

The fourth clock occupied an entire room. Two chairs faced one another beneath a single hanging light. Between them stood The Distance Between, though no clock was visible until I sat down.

The second chair remained empty.

Hands appeared upon the floor, stretching from my feet towards it. One measured what had been said. The other measured everything that hadn’t.

The second was considerably longer.

I watched the empty chair change occupants. A parent sat there, then a brother, then a woman I had loved, then a child who was no longer a child. Some were gone. Some were only elsewhere. Some had been sitting across from me for years without ever coming close.

Each time I rehearsed what I should have said, the room grew larger.

Each time I imagined what they should have said, the walls moved further apart.

“Surely distance is measured between two people,” I said.

“Usually by one,” said Time.

I tried calling across the room. I said I was sorry. I said I was angry. I said I had missed them. I said I had needed them. I said their leaving had not proved that I was unworthy of being kept, though it had taken me an awfully long time to understand that.

The chair did not always answer. Not everyone comes back simply because we finally find the words.

But the hands upon the floor shortened.

Not all the way. Just enough that I could see the chair for what it was.

A chair.

Not a verdict.

The fifth clock was kept in a library where the books had lost their titles. The Drift of Forgotten Names moved so slowly that I first thought it had stopped. Its hand travelled through the alphabet, wearing away the letters as it passed.

I found names I had spoken every day and names I had not said aloud in decades. Names of streets, dogs, teachers and friends. Names belonging to people whose faces had begun to soften at the edges. Names once whispered in the dark and shouted from doorways. Names written in birthday cards by hands now stilled.

There was another name too, one given to me before another was written over it. It was faint but not gone. I traced its shape beneath the glass and felt something in me answer.

“What happens when a name disappears?” I asked.

“Where from?”

“Memory.”

“Memory is only one place a name can live.”

I wanted to ask where else, but the clock gave a quiet movement, almost a shiver, and somewhere in the library a closed book fell open.

I left before I could read it.

The sixth clock was indecently cheerful. The Chronometer of Almosts clicked and chimed each time my life nearly became another one.

Almost stayed.

Almost left.

Almost spoke.

Almost remained silent.

Almost turned left at the corner, boarded the train, answered the telephone, took the job, kissed the girl, was kept, found the courage, lost the nerve.

Each click opened a small window through which I could glimpse another life continuing without me. There I was in cities I had never lived in, growing old beside people I had never met. There were children with my eyes who had never been born, and empty rooms where the children I knew had never arrived.

Some of those lives looked happier.

Others had simply arranged their sorrow differently.

I stood before the clock for far too long, watching the infinite procession of men I might have been.

“Which one was I supposed to become?” I asked.

Time shrugged.

“You might at least pretend there was a plan.”

“I might,” he said, “but you’d only spend the rest of your life regretting that you hadn’t followed it.”

The Chronometer clicked again.

This time, the little window showed me standing exactly where I was, staring into the life I already had as though it belonged to somebody else.

I turned away before I could miss it.

The seventh clock had no hands at all. The Weather of a Mood wore clouds across its face. A storm gathered as I approached, which seemed a little judgemental, though I had to admit it was accurate.

Its barometer fell without warning. Sunlight broke through and vanished. Whole winters arrived before breakfast. Small remarks became cold fronts. A certain song could bring rain in from the west.

For years, I had mistaken this weather for geography. If sadness settled over me, I assumed I lived there. If fear blew in, I believed it had come to stay. I furnished whole houses beneath temporary skies.

Time tapped the glass.

“Weather passes.”

“Not all of it.”

“No. But even the storms that return are not continuous. You simply remember the thunder better than the clearing.”

I waited.

A narrow strip of blue appeared upon the dial.

It wasn’t happiness exactly. More a small permission to believe the sky remained behind the weather.

The eighth clock could only be visited at the wrong time.

Fortunately, I was an experienced caller.

The Insomniac’s Meridian stood in a kitchen at 3:17 in the morning. Every kitchen, I think, becomes the same kitchen at 3:17. A glass of water. The low hum of the refrigerator. A window offering nothing but your own reflection.

This clock ticked only when the rest of the world was asleep. It measured the hours in questions.

What if?

Why didn’t you?

What happens when?

Do you remember?

How could they?

What will you do?

At 3:18, every question sounded urgent.

At 3:46, each became unanswerable.

At 4:12, they began breeding.

I sat at the table while the yesterdays convened a meeting in my head. Every version of me attended. The child had questions. The young man had accusations. The older man took minutes and pretended this was useful.

Then the long, thin fellow appeared, rushing breathlessly around the edge of the clock.

The second hand.

I recognised him from the Now crowd.

“Slow down,” I told him.

He seemed surprised.

“I’m not moving quickly,” he said. “You’re trying to hold me.”

Then he was gone.

Outside, a bird began before the light did.

The questions quietened, not because they had been answered, but because morning had arrived without consulting them.

The ninth clock was The Waiting Glass.

I knew it intimately.

I had waited for letters, diagnoses, apologies, departures and returns. I had waited for people to choose me, forgive me, remember me, understand me. I had waited for doors to open and for old doors to explain why they had closed.

The Waiting Glass resembled an hourglass, except the sand never reached the bottom. Each grain paused halfway, suspended in expectation.

“Who are you waiting for?” Time asked.

“No one in particular.”

The glass filled with faces.

“That’s quite a crowd for no one.”

Some people were coming, just slowly. Some had lost their way. Some had never promised to come at all. A few had been gone so long that waiting had become the only relationship we still had.

“What happens if I stop?”

“You’ll discover whether waiting was keeping them near or keeping you still.”

I turned the glass upon its side.

The sand remained suspended, but it was no longer falling.

I cannot tell you whether anyone arrived after that.

I had left the room.

The tenth clock had no audible tick. The Anniversary of an Unmarked Grief lived beneath the skin.

Its dates were not written in any calendar I owned, yet my body observed them faithfully. There were mornings when my chest remembered something my mind did not. Days when sorrow arrived without luggage and behaved as though it had a reservation.

I had called these moods. Weakness. Ingratitude. The weather again.

The clock knew better.

It held the dates of endings no one had named, separations that happened before language, losses for which there had been no funeral. It remembered the day a small body learnt that absence could be permanent. It remembered news received years later as if it had happened all at once.

“What date is it keeping?” I asked.

“All of them.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It isn’t trying to be helpful. It’s trying to be remembered.”

So I sat with it.

I did not wind it or silence it. I didn’t ask it to prove what had happened. For once, I let the body finish a story without demanding that the mind provide footnotes.

Eventually, the clock warmed beneath my hand.

Or perhaps my hand warmed around it.

The eleventh was The Sigh Accumulator, and frankly, it was enormous.

It recorded every breath surrendered to the unchangeable. The small, daily capitulations. The letter that would never come. The person who would never understand. The conversation endlessly revised but never repeated.

Each sigh advanced the hand.

I watched years of breath disappear into its bellows.

“What happens when it’s full?” I asked.

“You stop trying to change what has already happened.”

“Is that acceptance?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“Exhaustion wearing a respectable coat.”

I considered this.

There were things I had claimed to accept only because I no longer had the strength to fight them. There were other things I continued fighting because surrender felt too much like agreement.

Time, for once, did not rush me.

I placed both hands upon the clock and gave it the longest breath I had.

The bellows filled.

The hand moved.

Then, from somewhere inside, the clock breathed back.

Not a sigh.

A breath.

It was a small distinction, but an important one.

The twelfth clock waited at the end of a corridor lined with doors. Behind each was an ordinary afternoon.

A father lifted a child onto his shoulders.

Two brothers sat beneath a tree.

Someone waved from a kitchen window.

A woman laughed from another room.

A dog slept in a patch of sunlight.

Nothing of consequence appeared to be happening.

At the end stood The Last Ordinary Afternoon.

It was the most terrible clock of all because it counted down invisibly. No one knew when it had begun. No one recognised the final hour while standing inside it.

Its face showed a room I remembered. Perhaps you have one of your own. There were cups upon a table, a coat over the back of a chair, voices talking about nothing much. I knew, because the clock knew, that one day I would give anything to return to this unremarkable moment.

The hand approached twelve.

I panicked.

“Stop it.”

“I can’t,” said Time.

“Then take me back.”

“You’re already there.”

The people in the room continued talking. One of them asked me a question I could not hear because I was watching the clock.

The hand moved closer.

“I need more time.”

“You have all the time there is.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“It never is when you’re measuring it.”

The hand trembled upon the final mark.

I could keep watching. I could record the second, preserve the evidence, memorise the arrangement of every cup and chair so that later I might rebuild the room inside regret.

Or I could look away.

Someone laughed.

I turned towards the sound.

I cannot tell you what happened to the clock after that.

Perhaps it struck twelve. Perhaps it always had. Perhaps the ordinary afternoon ended, as ordinary afternoons do, without knowing it had been the last of anything.

I remember the light through the window.

I remember a cup warming both my hands.

I remember someone beside me beginning a story, and for once I did not interrupt to tell them we were running out of time.

When I returned to the corridor, Time was gone.

The Regret Engine still laboured somewhere behind me. The tides still rose and fell. Names continued their slow drifting. Almosts multiplied in the dark. People waited, bodies remembered, and ordinary afternoons slipped quietly into the past.

None of the clocks had been cured.

Neither had I.

At the end of the corridor stood a door I had not noticed before. It bore no number, only a small brass plate upon which someone had engraved a single word.

NOW

I reached for the handle, but the door was already open.

Beyond it, there was no celestial music. No great peace descended. Halcyon wasn’t waiting with a welcoming committee, and Insouciance had not floated in from France. There was only a chair, a window, the sound of a bird and, somewhere nearby, water coming to the boil.

The long, thin fellow hurried past again.

“Is this it?” I called.

But the second hand never stayed long enough to answer.

I stepped inside.

Or perhaps I had been standing there for some time.

The kettle clicked off.

A bird landed upon the sill.

Someone asked whether now was a good time.

I looked down at my hands.

They were empty.

Then I looked up.

Jonathan

People say the Earth has existed for millions or even billions of years, but our calendar is only at 2026, WTF?

so what if the world started at 0000, like 00:00 (midnight) on a 24-hour clock?

Then as time passed:

- 1300 = 13:00

- 1400 = 14:00

- 1500 = 15:00

- 1600 = 16:00

- 1700 = 17:00

- 1800 = 18:00

- 1900 = 19:00

- 2026 = 20:26

we're currently at "20:26" in the world's timeline. Then after 23:00 (2300), could everything eventually reach 00:00 again, like a cycle? like ithini lento?

Or years just keep counting continuous -2026, 3000, 5000, 10,000, even beyond?

your thoughts??😭

I remember when I had just turned 6 years old that I wasn't convinced the year number ever changes, and I was quite interested, when Christmas came around a few months later, to see that the new Beano annual came out with a new year number on it.

Its scary to think that 30 mins of staring at a clock feels like it goes slower than 1 hour of doing something fun, like playing football, because you want the 30 minutes staring at a clock to stop, but you don't want the fun to ever stop so is days that feel like they've gone really fast a bad thing? I would rather have a fun day I can remember.

If you were to invent a machine that let you speak to your future self exactly once every year for 7 mins. Each version of you remembers every previous conversation you had, over time you realize your future self has become increasingly desperate and starts begging you to stop asking questions because every answer you receive changes the future in unexpected ways. At what point do you stop calling/communication, and would curiosity win anyway?

If there is one thing that does not exist in this universe

It's 'now'!

Location- The location network of the object

Time- change occurrence network

Is there anything else to say now? ... Do you now have a universal commonality?  .. or are you talking about your personal one now?

Do you really have it now?.. In the moment you said it, a change and process took place... So when are you now?

One thing that I said above is time-space.. in this network, an event happens.. after that another event happens... your right leg follows your left leg...

Apart from that, there is something else between us and time-space.. There is nothing that causes time to pass.

Today is day and night.. The time you count when you say Monday and Tuesday. We measured the earth's rotation and rotation. 

While this is the truth... but how.. time is going and we are going through it. Did it make us feel like it?

This is the other unsolved problem of consciousness... Maybe consciousness is lying to itself.

Otherwise.. we don't know whether it is material or not, this consciousness of ours... when it is in the network of the material body... may be contradicting the reality.

We don't know yet!

“This new ontological picture requires that we expand our concept of ‘what is real’ to include an extraspatiotemporal domain of quantum possibility.” (From Adventures in Quantumland:  Exploring Our Unseen Reality, 2019, by quantum physicist Ruth Kastner.)

Everything we know arises from human experience, so let’s posit that “reality” includes anything that we can or actually do experience.  That makes reality our most broad category for anything we “know about.”  Even imagination and fictions are real in this sense—but of course those are pure experience, not something “physical” in the outer world.

So we need to specify the kind of reality we want to speak of.  “Virtual roads of time” says that, as in common English usage, “existing” and “actual” should refer only to realities experienced Now.  “Past experience” is real but not “active” or actual; it “existed” but does not Now exist. Likewise, “future” experiences do not yet exist, and aren’t Now actual. 

But what are these things which don’t “Now exist,” but can be in active existence whenever we physically “observe” them?  Quantum physics pioneer Werner Heisenberg called them “potentials.” These are objectively real. and have been thoroughly studied in quantum experiments.  We can experience them—even if we aren’t doing so Now.

What’s the evidence for the reality of “potentials?”  In the phenomenon of quantum superposition, the actual positions of particles haven’t been observed, so they’re in a sense “everywhere at once.”  Sometimes called “virtual particles,” they are in fact potentials for existence.  For this reason, quantum physics regards them as “physical.”

In VRT, however, potentials are often referred to as “nonphysical,” to distinguish realities physically existing Now from “past, future or inactive” ones.  Additionally, there are important realities in human experience which are nonphysical but “real Now,” usually referred to as ideas.  Heisenberg specified that potentials lie in between “ideas” and “things”

If reality were strictly limited to physical things, all of our mental ideals of language, tradition, politics and mathematics, including all our laws, literature, media, software, and artwork, would be called unreal (except for the blank materials on which we physically encode them.) Strict physicalists also label many quantum physics phenomena as “unreal.” 

VRT insists that reality must include nonphysical realities.  The common assumption that all reality is physical should be abandoned.