Time and Space and Me

I do not have an All-seeing Eye,
To observe all, from all places,
In all directions, at all times.
I can see only from where I am now,
In the direction to which I'm turned,
On my intrepid journey through my life,
Along my path through time and space.

But is the view that this affords me,
A true objective view of what's real?
Though it may share commonalities,
With the personal views of others,
It necessarily differs from theirs.
So my point of view, must be unique
among many, and hence subjective.

To understand the view I'm gleaning,
My mind must parse it into meaning,
In the language with which I've grown,
Inherited from my terrestrial home.
But this lacks concepts that I need,
So I'm trapped, I must well heed, in
A case of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis.

If instruments now extend my senses,
To reach into the nanoscopic world,
They can't but add, without pretences,
serious distortion to what's unfurled.
To see what's there, I must bombard it.
But this could make what's primitive,
Appear as something counter-intuitive.

I am bound to a language lacking scope,
With data from my instruments distorted,
From my point in time, I can't be ported,
So of an objective view I have no hope.
But an objective view is not what I need.
It's subjective reality that I must heed:
It's what reality is to me that matters.

So please allow me to observe.
Let me simply look and see,
How all things appear to me.
Let me question what they are,
In terms of what I know so far.
Then let the picture freely form,
To establish my pragmatic norm.

What is this 'thing' I perceive as 'me'?
A kernel of thought, at the centre of all:
An infinite sphere of interminable space,
A cosmos of galaxies, stars and planets,
Earth with oceans, land, wind and weather,
Gaia with her flora, fauna and men,
A vast murmuration of me, mine and them.

The 'me' that I am, perceives all these things.
But how does news of them arrive in my mind?
It converges towards me from every direction,
Be I awake and aware or asleep and oblivious.
I sense it by feel, taste, smell, sound and light,
From close at hand; from the depths of Infinity,
Converging towards me relentlessly.

I've no means or power to pull-in what I see,
I therefore conclude it's being brought to me.
But who or what is the bringer or conveyor,
Of all this information of which I'm surveyor?
It must be an essence that's forever converging,
A fundamental flow that can't vary or cease,
Into my consciousness, never emerging.

The news brought by feel, taste, smell and sound,
Is through contact and air, that's close all around.
But light from the vacuous reaches of space,
Comes through nothing, at unimaginable pace.
So does it have to be a vibration, like sound?
Or a particle to a wave of probability bound?
How counter-intuitive, this I've found!

A simpler alternative is not hard to find,
I just think of what's arriving at my mind,
As etchings upon the essence of time,
Converging radially, at the speed of light,
Into the place where my thoughts take flight,
Then disappearing into some fuzzy sink, at
The seat of my consciousness, where I think.

So the essence of time convergently flows,
Its density accelerating hard as it goes,
Just like the traditional force of gravity,
Disappearing into some invisible cavity.
But somehow my mind is able to capture,
Its etchings of light before they fracture,
And are lost within the voracious abyss.

Where is the sink-hole, into which all is lost?
At the atomic centre, a threshold is crossed,
And as the super-dense time-flux enters therein,
It creates a backwash, which is somewhat akin,
To particles and waves, which outwards face,
Split and shaped by the geometry of space,
As a nucleus with arms for others to embrace.

Thus, time-flux is a notion that unifies all.
From universe to atom, all's in free-fall.
And somewhere deep, there within my brain,
My consciousness watches the etchings of light,
As they fall to oblivion after their flight,
Into sink-holes in atoms in a fuzzy domain.
As in my ocular retinas, their form I retain.

From the light I receive I can see the extreme,
But the things that I see are not what they seem,
The further from me that the etchings were made,
The older the image, which to me is conveyed,
And the younger the object by which it was laid.
The seat of my consciousness therefore must be,
The oldest place in eternity.

The flux of time of which I have spoken,
Can't into hours, minutes, seconds be broken.
A mind that seeks to be truly inquisitive,
Can see that the flux is their first derivative.
But dee-tee-by-dee-tee's no determinate worth,
I need to break free from the limits of Earth,
Which to my mind its conceptions gave birth.

The notion of time as the hours that I spend,
Comes from my memory that makes me tend,
To think the universe has a way of knowing,
its past, and the future of where it's going,
But it's only, in an eternal present, flowing.
And it's upon this that I must get a handle,
If this concept of time I will disentangle.

Thus everything is one differential removed,
From the Earthly concepts to which I am used.
So time is related to the way that time flows,
As space relates to the speed that it goes.
But words won't work until my mind itself knows,
That the relation between time and space must be,
A dimensionless ratio with the value of 'c'.

I directly sense speed, as experience of motion.
And of the passing of time, I also have a notion.
It's these two I must cherish, if I am ever to see,
The flowing of time, as the prime root of reality.
Pure time and space, as things of persistence,
By human memory only, have their existence,
To quantify and relate a period with distance.

So the only thing there, is time flowing in space,
Converging from the vastness, to finish its race,
In sink-holes, each with its back-standing waves,
As an atom with valency, each one behaves,
On passing flux etching, its signatures of light,
Conveying them convergently into my sight,
Parsed by my mind, that of them I may write.

An objective model of the universe? Never!
That's bound to remain all hidden forever,
But my theory unifies: it does not sever.
It's the simplest view that will not waiver,
Against the rigours of Ockham's Razor.
The most unorthodox view you ever did see,
But all I can say is: it works for me!

© 02 to 05 February 2023 Robert John Morton | See related series of essays