January 29th, 2021
People love to say a person “passed before their time.” What few like to admit is that every person dies exactly when they were going to.
Everybody gets the same amount: exactly one life.
Time is a solid state. From the beginning of time to the end, you can pick it up and read it, like a history book. It happens simultaneously, meaning you can turn to whatever page you want to, whenever you want. That means that everything that is going to happen to you has already happened — and there is nothing you can do about it.
This isn’t a religious or spiritual idea; it’s rooted in objective fact. You are going to die, and you are going to die in one specific way.
Before you think I’m screaming from inside the blackness of the void and turn away from me — read on.
Because time is a solid, physical state, it means that you can feel any part of it at any time, using whatever means you have at your disposal.
For example, this photograph.
I don’t remember this moment. But, somehow, I can smell this rose. I can feel the soft pedals wrapped around my nose. I sense the muscle pulling in my young back as I lean in for the encounter.
It’s just as real now as it was then.
Something I do remember vividly, however, is my mom. Every day.
And because of this, I can feel her arms wrapped around my back, refusing to let me go for just a few more moments.
I can feel her kiss my cheek before she leaves, knowing that I’ll see her again soon.
I can hear her absurd, infectious laughter as I feel her slap my leg because I just said the thing that I thought would make her smile the most.
I feel her hand in my hand at the various times in my life that I just needed to hold her hand.
Time is a solid state; and that knowledge is a tool in my fight for keeping my head above the water and seeing it as an entire picture.