Cars crash in slow motion; week-long vacations slip away in a flash. Our heart is broken, the next days feel like fifteen weeks, and suddenly we wonder: What, if anything, does time even measure?
One look at our ageing bodies and time can feel very concrete. But while we go about our days perceiving, measuring, and planning our experience in neat, linear increments, generations of scientists and artist have done their best to burst our bubble:
What exactly constitutes time? Does its passage depend on events taking place within it? How is it that experience of time varies by culture and age? Would time pass if no conscious entity would be present to perceive it? Why does time seem to flow in one unilateral and irreversible direction? And why should we even care?