Watching the hands of the clock, a thought struck me.
We often say "time is flowing," but perhaps the reality is quite the opposite.
Commonly, we imagine time as an invisible river, carrying us along in its current.
But that never felt quite right. What if the true substance is not time, but "change" itself?
A glass of water warming up. Shadows stretching across the floor. A subtle shift in someone’s expression.
These events—these changes—happen first. Time is merely the label, the "index" we attach to them afterward to distinguish the "before" from the "after."
Think about it: if every single change in the universe were to stop, time would lose all meaning in that instant.
Without change, there is no "then" to compare with "now." There is nowhere left to stick the label.
It’s not that change stops because time stops; time ceases to exist because change has stopped.
We might feel enslaved by the precise rhythm of mechanical clocks, but perhaps we are simply using the concept of time to organize the chaotic, beautiful "becoming" of the world.
There is a certain lightness in this realization.
Anxiety about the future and regrets from the past are just rows of indices.
What truly matters is the substance: the way the world is moving, right here, right now.
Maybe I’ll stop my clock tonight and just sleep.
Though, as long as my heart is beating, the "index" of my own change will keep on updating itself.