Time is so unreal and fleeting that you do not experience its passage nor can you remember it. You remember events, expressions, people, evidence of time, but time itself you cannot remember. It is so nonexistent that you don't experience it. You never did. You sometimes feel that time races or it goes slow, but time itself never is, beloveds. It is a mirage. It is a word. It is a concept. It is nothing but an idea. What are these supposed annals of time and where do they reside?

When you feel bored, you feel that time is stringing itself out at a slow pace. When you feel harried, you feel that the clock ticks faster. You have too much time or not enough. Which is it? Perhaps time pans out according to your proclivity at a particular time. It is arbitrary. Time is a decision someone made that caught on, and now you can't live without it.

Time changes its colors, its tune, its meter, its composition, its structure, its manifestation. Time is a game of Let's Pretend.

You do see aging all around you. It is rampant. But what if you didn't conceive of time and aging in the interior of your mind, would they exist? If the world gave up belief in aging, would it disappear? If the mind creates what you see, can the mind also uncreate what you see? Can the world be transformed by your thoughts and beliefs? What if the boundary of time had not been conceived of, would you conceive of it now? What if you did not conceive of time as a passing acquaintance at all? Time, of course, is a stranger. Time is an alien.

What does it mean that this moment is the only moment that exists? How can you add up this momentary moment the way you do? It is an accumulation of — what? How is it that you think you can take time like a piece of meat and cut it up into hours and days and weeks and months, count it backwards and forwards, put papers up on the wall that designate it, make dials as idols of it? Time must be a false god of yours!

Surely you have made an altar to it. You bow to it. You follow its ordinances. You obey its rules. It rules you and tames you. You look at the clock more than you look at the sun.

Time doesn't run out. Infinity is never less. But infinity is not in the category of time. Timeless un-time no-time-at-all too-much-time have nothing whatsoever to do with infinity. Nor does space nor spacelessness have anything to do with Being.

Time and space are merely accessories. If life is a coat, time and space are the trim. They are the decoration of it.

When you play a flute, the notes traverse the universe. You may mark the notes on paper. You may record them. But the music itself you cannot hold in your hand. The breath through the flute that makes the music you cannot hold in your hand. It cannot be grasped. You cannot grasp the enormity of the music nor the willing violin that plays it. The music itself exists in another domain, which is one reason why you love it so much.

But time exists only on the Earth plane. Time nails you to Earth. Infinity and eternity raise you to Heaven.

Time is like money on Earth. Money is man-made and arbitrary yet it seems essential. It was made up much the same way as time. Time and money both are illusions. Infinity and abundance are not.