ON THE FRAGILITY OF TIME
A freeze-frame. A high-speed photo. A single instance caught in time by some medium—whether a camera taking a photograph, a drawing depicting a scene, or a memory held in your mind. These moments are representations of the present, but only as it slips away.
The moment just before a balloon pops exists only until the skin ruptures—air escaping, sound erupting, rags of rubber flailing in the wind. The impact of the pin, the pressure against the surface, the final puncture: all are presences that vanish as soon as they occur.
There is a fragility in time, in presence, that cannot be captured or held. Time flows through us, indifferent to our attempts to preserve or possess it. This is why there is absurdity in the idea of permanence.
As time flows through us—us being not only individual humans, but the entire universe, the atmosphere, and the worlds beyond our stars—we as humans hold a particular kind of freedom. It is delicate, but distinct. We can choose to orient ourselves to time, to exist in relation to it as individuals, rather than be entirely shaped by it.
Consider the difference between the human experience of time and that of stone. Though stone moves on scales far beyond our perception, it does move. We observe stone weathering from rain and wind, its surface slowly shifting. Its temporality is slow, almost imperceptible—but not static.
It is through dwelling—a mode of being attuned to our environment and existence—that we find a kind of freedom from time’s dominion. In building dwelling thinking, we do not merely exist within time or react to it; we reflect, question, and become aware of our thrownness—our condition of being placed in a world not of our choosing.
This is the paradox of presence: to live within time while also stepping outside its flow through thought, memory, and awareness.