Time is a nuisance

Time. It often confuddles me that now I'm sitting here on this picnic table enjoying my nightly coffee with the rabbits, and in a while I'll be hiking along a dark desolate railway track amused by 'police force one' circling the hoodlum infested neighbourhoods of our fine city. I'll be the same person, the same nogginal entity, slightly different physical co-ordinates on sweet mother earth, but never to return to this juncture in the unfolding expansion of our universe. Time.

A recurring nogginal ambiance tells me that time is an illusion, all moments are actually concurrent, our lives are a single essence, time is a nuisance which keeps us from fathoming our whole rapturous encounter with the cosmos in one hysterical twinkle. The dinosaurs and us, we're actually coeval beings, a delightful poke from the gods of humour at filling their twinkle with dash. But time? This humour thing, why? Is there really a need for the shattering of our peaceful holoscopic reality where time is really not that necessary, and probability is probably the best you can do at establishing that we are anything other than a simulation (most probably a computer simulation), of which we the simulants are totally unaware of this humour playing out at our expense.

Why, we wonder on, and does it really matter if we are a simulation or not. We're only pawns in this universe anyway. It does what it wants with us. Freedom is a joke. But all is random we may conceptualize, yet it has it's rules, laws as it were, pulling us up by our bootstraps.

We must live by faith, faith that there is a reason, a purpose to our awareness. But no, it is but a joke. We are not, gods aren't what they aren't. Or at least we'll never know. Humour must become our god. Humour creates us, sustains us, keeps us sane. Yes the probability that humour created us is just as plausible as any other explanation. And humour has a purpose – it makes us chuckle.

Time, time, time. Time to dine this remorselessly craving illusion the gods humour me with.