I am not writing this
I am not writing this. It doesn’t matter who is writing it. It matters that you are reading it. The acts that are occurring and the things that are being described are familiar to a particular time. It may not be your time, but the acts are still occurring, the places still existing, you are still reading. Things are happening while you are reading, tedious things, tender and abusive things. Those things don’t happen later, or before. They happen as they happen, and as they happen you are reading them. Time, you believe, slows, speeds past you, allows things to cause other things. As you read, time becomes solid. Solid things disappear in time. Forever is finite because you can visualize it. When you stop, it is over. Beyond you, the things you cause are irrelevant. They will impact other people, hurt them, give them purpose. But that is somewhere else. When the time comes, and with time, it shall, they will touch you again, lift you up, destroy you for a moment, or give you something to occupy another lifetime.