A Block of Time

I was going to say that I've got a free block of time, but "block" indicates boundaries, whereas time really isn't bound. We have no idea where time begins or where it ends. Of course, somebody on a lunch break could smartly tell me how time works. But that isn't time. That's the organization of time. That's what bothers most people like me. We don't particularly like organization, unless it's within the context of what we're trying to create. I imagine that most writers or artists, in their work, are trying to escape time. Maybe that's part of wanting to be an "artist," the need or desire to escape time, which, in fact, in its corollary, is the will to escape death. Death is the shadow of time. It makes fools of all of us, unless we recognize it, not as the end of time, but as the beginning of timelessness, the antithesis of time. So we are really hand in hand with both consorts. And, if this timelessness is a part of our continuum, then it inhabits us even during the illusion of our life-death experience. We are infinite beings, as it were, eternal in some realm of conception. No one is excepted, not the murderer, the psychopath, the wanderer, tyrant, factory worker, office worker or saint. That, indeed, is what binds us,  makes us equal, contributes to our humanity and to our eternal nature. What men are doing when they're slaughtering each other is dividing life into time and using time as a reason and excuse for desecrating the holiness of the other, as if that would affect their timelessness.