Time Out

Time goes mainly forward—yes—but not as an arrow goes, slowing at a consistent rate of -9.81 m/s2.

You don’t have to go fast or rise a meaningful distance from the earth’s core or read Einstein to realize time has no zero degree, no absolute rate of passage.

I’d say it’s like money that way, eternally measurable against goods or currencies but never for a moment having any stable value outside of the specific transaction that activates it. I’d say that, but in fact, time is not just like money. It’s like everything. And I like the analogy to words better.

When you put meat in the fridge, you’re slowing time.

When you reread the sentence that boggled you, you’re reliving time.

When you sprint to get there you’re speeding time.

When you skim to get the meaning you’re folding time or poking holes in it like the lid of a jar to put fireflies in on a tepid night in early July.

When you drive past all the homes you used to live in or the house of the girlfriend where you once were welcome you’re going back in time. When you call her just to say hello at two a.m. years after you blew out by mutual agreement and with what you thought was mutual sadness your love’s brief candle you’re erasing time.

When you try to use words to name the things time does you’re stopping time.

When you think you’ve finally said it you’re betraying time.