From this metaphysical root grows the tree of our experience. Its roots are sunk in potential. Its branches reach toward what has not yet come to be.
Memory is not a record of what was. It is the shape of the spiral we have already traced—
a pattern carved into our potentials, bending what now may be.
We do not remember the past—we live it, now, in the structures it has left in us.
Trauma, longing, joy—these are not shadows behind us, but fields within us.
Time is recursive. The past becomes the conditions of presence.
Imagination is not escape—it is extension.
It is how the spiral reaches beyond itself—how the World-Self dreams through us.
To imagine is to taste a future instance from the store of unformed potential.
To desire, to envision, to create—these are temporal acts.
We are not passengers of time. We are its composers.
To live well, then, is not to master time.
It is to attune to the spiral.
To listen for where it thickens with possibility.
To move not with the tick of the clock, but with the breath of becoming.
We mark our days not by hours, but by turning points—
the thresholds where something meaningful becomes actual.
These are the holy moments: a decision, a glance, a poem spoken aloud.
To remember, to imagine, to choose—
these are the acts through which we spiral forward.
Not as progress, but as participation.
To live mythically in time is to honour each moment as a meeting between the world that has been, and the world that longs to be.
It is to dwell in the heart of becoming, as a conscious ripple in the breath of the cosmos.
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