Verse 1
I thought I was walking a long straight line,
Dragging my past, chasing what’s mine,
Yesterday behind me, tomorrow in view,
Till I looked close at what’s actually true.
This moment didn’t come from before—
It just arrived, like a knock on the door.
Chorus
It’s always new, always now,
No in-between, no then or how,
Nothing flowing, nothing through—
Just this appearing, fresh and true.
I’m not between what was and will be—
Now is all there’s ever been.
Verse 2
A sound ends clean, a thought breaks off,
No bridge between, no echo loft,
The mind draws lines and calls it time,
Connects the dots after the sign.
But life doesn’t move the way it’s told—
It shows up young, not growing old.
Chorus
It’s always new, always now,
No passing through, no anyhow,
Nothing carried, nothing stored—
Each instant born, then ignored.
Drop the story, look again—
This moment’s never happened then.
Bridge
Continuity feels real and strong,
But it’s memory singing a practiced song,
What’s here doesn’t need a past—
It arrives complete, it doesn’t last.
Final Chorus
Always new, always now,
No timeline holding this somehow,
No sandwich between before and next—
Just this, untouched, uncontexted.
Life isn’t late, life isn’t due—
It’s showing up again, brand new.
Outro
Not flowing.
Not continuing.
Just Appearing.
more consideration of The Illusion of Continuity
We assume there is something that continues.
A thread running through moments.
A centre moving from past to present to future.
A “me” who was there then, is here now, and will be there later.
This assumption feels obvious. It feels undeniable.
But it is never actually experienced.
What is experienced is far simpler—and far stranger.
A sound appears.
It ends.
Another sound appears.
A thought arises.
It vanishes.
Another thought takes its place.
A sensation in the body flickers into existence.
It changes.
It dissolves.
At no point do you experience a moment carrying over into the next one.
You only experience arrival.
Again.
And again.
Continuity is not something you perceive.
It is something the mind infers after the fact.
Look closely and you’ll notice this:
the past never appears as past.
It appears as memory—now.
The future never appears as future.
It appears as imagination—now.
Both are present-time phenomena, stitched together into a story that says, “This is my life moving through time.”
But experience itself has no stitching.
There is no seam where one moment hands itself to the next.
No baton passed.
No container that holds them together.
The sense of continuity is created by narrative habit:
memory referencing memory
thought referencing thought
identity referencing identity
It’s a loop, not a line.
This is why continuity feels so convincing.
The mind is very good at replay.
But replay is not persistence.
When you look for the one who is supposed to be continuous—
the self who endures across moments—
you find only traces:
a thought about who you were
an image of who you might be
a feeling labelled “me”
All of them appear now and disappear now.
There is no owner travelling through experience.
There is only experience happening.
This doesn’t make life fragmented or meaningless.
It makes it fresh.
Each moment arrives unburdened by the last.
Each appearance is complete on its own.
Nothing needs to be carried forward.
The self was never continuous.
It was reassembled—moment by moment—using memory as glue.
And when this is seen, something profound relaxes.
There is no one who has to hold life together.
No one who must maintain coherence.
No one who needs to become anything over time.
Life doesn’t flow.
It appears.
