Time Is Not Real
Show me the past. Show me the future. The only thing that seems to be happening is the present. But without a past and future, the present is just what seems to be happening, without any context. There might be a thought appearing about the past, or a thought appearing about the future, but there is nothing real behind that. It’s not possible to go visit the past or to go visit the future because they don’t exist. If time were real then it might be said that the past and future have never existed.
The illusion of separation, which we call the self or the me, has nothing to stand upon in what seems to be happening timelessly. The self-illusion needs to believe that it has a real past so that it can be confident that it has a real future; it must, necessarily, imagine a context for itself. The self-illusion, which may be what seems to be happening, might include thoughts about an imaginary past and future, which are used as proof that it is real.
But even what seems to be happening is not real. What seems to be happening is neither real nor unreal. It is the singular, undivided whole appearing as what seems to be happening (which may include thoughts). There is no space in this for a real, separate self. How can there be a self when there is no past or future to hold a story about it, no spatial extent for it to reside in, no perspective for it to look from, and no location for it to be found at?
It’s not that everything is occurring all at once; there is no instant. There is only what seems to be happening, which may seem to be moving and changing. But there is no real movement; what is neither real nor unreal, what is neither still nor not still, may be appearing as movement.
The self, thinking it is everything, the center of the universe, conceptually squashes what seems to be happening (which is everything) down into a tiny point called here and now, enclosing it, like a tiny sliver of meat, between infinitely large baps (bread buns) of imaginary other-times and other-places. What is actually happening is the other way around: the self has absolutely nowhere real to stand in the infinitude of this, in what seems to be happening.