Time is not a line along which things move. It is the unfolding of movement itself—the beat by which processes become actual. In this view, rhythm is not something added to time; rhythm is time, shaped into form. The heartbeat, the breath, the orbit, the ritual, the memory: these are not just events in time. They are time made visible, time made felt.
From the spiral of galaxies to the spiral of a fern’s unfurling, the cosmos writes itself in pulses and patterns. Matter vibrates. Cells cycle. Minds loop. Cultures repeat and reinvent. The universe does not merely evolve; it recurs—but never the same. This is not stasis, but spiral. Not repetition, but variation with return.
In myth, this is known. The ancients told of days that echo the gods’ first acts, of seasons that mirror creation, of sacred calendars not to mark time but to renew it. Mythic time was not measured—it was entered. To step into the festival, the rite, the song, was to rejoin the primal rhythm.
And even now, beneath the surface of our digitised tempo, we are still rhythmic creatures. Language, breath, perception, learning—all unfold in recursive waves. Our meanings are not flat lines but living currents: patterns of resonance between potential and actual, inner and outer, self and world.
What if we see the universe this way? Not as a sequence of inert events, but as a vast liturgy of becoming—a dance of recursions, actualising themselves rhythmically in cosmic time. Time not as the backdrop of existence, but as its very movement: structured, pulsed, and alive.
To live in such a world is not just to mark time, but to tune to it. To listen. To feel the recurring pulses of self and system. To dance, not merely forward, but inwards, backwards, spiralling into deeper harmonies.
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