Spectrum of Time

Our understanding of the world is shaped by the limits of our perception.

When we talk about color, we think of red, blue and yellow. Based on the three colors, we construct the whole system of visible colors. We can’t say the colors we see are the color of all. We now know that infrared and ultraviolet are also colors, but human eyes just can’t see it. Infrared and ultraviolet light aren’t nonexistent—they’re simply outside the spectrum we can see.

The same illusion may apply to time.

We think we live in a linear flow — experiencing the “present,” remembering the “past,” anticipating the “future.” But what if time, like light, is a continuous and fully existing spectrum? What if the past and future never vanish or await, but merely exist in frequencies of time we cannot perceive?

In other words:

The “present” is just the segment of the time-spectrum that our consciousness is currently illuminating. The “past” and “future” are as real as infrared and ultraviolet—they're just hidden from direct perception.

If time is indeed a spectral structure, then all our notions of “choice,” “memory,” and “destiny” aren’t products of temporal flow, but localized edits—cut from a broader, ever-present continuum that we glimpse only in part.

If time is indeed a spectrum, then it is not a flowing river but a static spatial structure stretched across existence. Each “moment” is a band of this spectrum, not something that comes and goes—but something that always is, regardless of our attention.

Causality is Not Progression

We tend to believe the past causes the present—that causality is a forward-moving force. But within a spectral view of time, causality is not about sequence, but about structural necessity.

This means:

Your current state is not determined solely by your past actions, but by the combined necessity of your past, present, and future. They form a mutual lock-in—not a domino line, but a triangulated structure.

For example:

You feel stomach pain not just because you ate an rotten apple, but also because you will die from it tomorrow. All three facts must coexist to make your present coherent.

Memory is Not History

Since the present is not a continuation of the past but a structural snapshot of the universe, “memory” is not evidence of lived experience — it is a design feature necessary for this version of “you” to exist.

This brings an unsettling but inevitable conclusion:

Your memories might not prove what you’ve lived through. They are assigned values, crafted to support the logic of the current state.

You cannot verify whether the “you” from one second ago truly existed.

You only know that you now possess a certain memory—and that might be nothing more than a well-fabricated illusion of continuity.

Choice is Not Freedom

We believe our choices shape the future. But if the future already exists and co-defines the present, then “choice” becomes merely a filtering action—a way of selecting from within the structurally valid options.

You don’t create a new path. You slide into the only logically coherent route available in your universal position. You may feel like you “chose” it, but it’s equally true that the structure required you to choose it.

Love Her is Why I Exist

I love a girl, so much. I love her, but we remained friends.

I used to think，

“Maybe the result comes from a choice in the past.”

“Had I chosen differently, would we have ended differently?”

I once tried to trace the “perfect past choice,” hoping to find the right cause-effect sequence that would lead to something more with her.

My relationship with her as “just friends” isn’t the result of some failed decision, but the only structurally valid solution in this version of the universe. Perhaps in other timelines, we loved, kissed, shared lives—but those versions were overwritten. I don’t retain those memories, but my longing and sorrow may be echoes of paths that no longer exist.

Perhaps we did grow closer—maybe we even loved.

But those paths were overwritten, reconstructed, erased.

This “friend-version” of me was selected to remain.

My memories were assigned. My role was filtered.

But my love—

That may be the only part of me I still choose to believe is real.

In a city where only one kind of music is allowed,

he hides an old blues tape in a locked box.

Chapter 1

January. A cold day. Windy, but not many clouds.

Beep… Beep…

Evan Rowley was awakened by the alarm. Mechanically, he sat up and silenced the buzzing on his phone. The sky outside was still dark, blanketed in gray. The sidewalks were nearly empty. A few cars rolled past, their white-yellow and red headlights staining the air above the road. The trees along the street had been trimmed to perfect uniformity. Not a single leaf remained.

Evan pulled out a locked box from the farthest corner of his wardrobe. Inside were a few old cassette tapes—his most precious ones.

“Hmm… what to listen to today…”

“Maybe this one…”

Carefully, he removed a Robert Johnson tape—King of the Delta Blues Singers—and placed it into his battered Walkman. He slid on his headphones and pressed play. A slide guitar drifted in, smooth yet restless. Robert's aged voice cracked through the static.

“I went down to the cross road, fell down on my knees.”

He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and hurried out. Whether to hide the headphones or shield himself from the cold, he wrapped a thick scarf around his head and pulled on a wool cap. His shoulders hunched forward, trying to bury his face deeper into the fabric.

At the bus stop by the crossroads, a city bus was just arriving. Evan frowned—not because of the cold, but as if disturbed by having to leave the music. He pressed pause, reluctantly, then gingerly removed his headphones from beneath the layers and boarded the bus.

Inside, the air hit him like a fist—body odor, onions from someone’s breakfast, stale tobacco drifting from a coat sleeve. It all merged into a thick nausea. The walls of the bus were pasted with posters and slogans. One, in oversized calligraphy, read:

“Core Socialist Values Must Enter the Heart, the Mind, and the Soul.”

Another poster displayed the face of a middle-aged man. Not ugly, but certainly not beautiful. His skin had the uncanny smoothness of bad digital editing. His eyes were steely, his lips curved into a smirk that wasn’t quite a smile. Beside his portrait, in bold red and yellow, were the words:

“The People’s Chairman Is Our Guiding Sun!”

Evan shifted his gaze away casually, as if by reflex, careful not to let the cameras—or the passengers—catch even a flicker of discomfort on his face.

At exactly 7:00, the bus's screen flickered on. The morning broadcast began.

Beep... Beep...

“Red flags fly with the wind, the songs of victory ring proud!”

“The heroic people stand united, firm as steel!”

Everyone stopped what they were doing. Silence fell. The passengers sat still, heads slightly tilted upward. The red dots of the cameras blinked in rhythm with the music, like a metronome of obedience.

The song’s melody was a flat, unwavering line—more a command than a tune. The singer wasn't singing; he was shouting, each phrase forced through his lungs like slogans painted onto brick. The pounding drums struck like fists against the listener’s ears.

Evan glanced toward the rear of the bus. A few passengers had begun singing along, parroting the chorus with growing fervor. The “music” quickly dissolved into a loud, messy blend of off-beat echoes, garbled lyrics, and fractured timing. Still, in the eyes of some, he saw a light. A kind of fever.

From the noise emerged a smaller voice—a boy, maybe seven or eight, in a school uniform.

“Who dares invade us will be destroyed!”

He stood rigidly upright, burdened by a comically large backpack. His hands beat the rhythm awkwardly on his chest, shouting the lyrics in full voice, entirely off-key. His face was grave, focused, his eyes locked onto the animated red flags fluttering across the TV screen.

Evan had seen it all before, yet the dizziness still came. He longed to put his headphones back on, to seal himself inside that tiny world of strings and ghosts. But he knew better. For the sake of his job, his safety, his freedom—this was not a line worth crossing.

And that knowledge sickened him.

He turned to the window. The glass caught his reflection—his hair disheveled from the removed scarf, his beard trimmed with deliberate care. His coat, neatly pressed, hugged his body like a second skin. He looked exactly as he should.

This was not the first time he had heard the song. But each time, it felt like standing trial. A private interrogation waged by trumpets and drums.

Had he grown used to this? Or had he always been this weak?

Beyond the window, the morning sun was rising. Its light spilled over more slogans, more posters. Everything looked normal. As if sunlight no longer brought warmth, but only lent brilliance to printed faces.

Evan tried to summon a memory. Was the world always like this?

He remembered propaganda from long ago, portraits of other men, slogans with different fonts. But something felt irreversibly different now. He couldn’t name it. The thought collapsed before it could take shape.

His mind fogged. He stopped trying.

The music ended, finally. The screen faded to black, then displayed a final line in proud, flashing text:

“Only the music the People love is the music that is right.”

I always believe, the most important thing is the freedom to speak.

It's such a shame for us to get silent.

This blog will be written in English.

The purpose is to reveal what ordinary people truly think. How they embrace authoritarianism. How they reject democracy and freedom.

It's not always Communists' fault, but combines with the culture, history, and identity.

In a word,

“Communists pull off the fig leaf.”

NoSeq Pen May 27, 2025