Time is a funny dimension:

Length, width, and height, though often relative—certainly, at least, to each other—are somewhat constant. Though a solid might be taller or longer or wider, its dimensions generally remain stagnant. If one place is further from another, it’s unlikely to ever be closer—at least in our lifetime. If one lake is bigger or deeper than another, it’s unlikely to ever be smaller or shallower—again, at least in our lifetime. Of course, man can alter these dimensions. Something, by subtraction, can become shorter, smaller, or thinner.

Time, on the other hand, is completely unaffected—at least, intentionally—by man. By its nature—which is to say, it moves only in a single direction—something can be older, but if it is, it can never be younger.

But time is also fluid.

Sometimes it moves fast. Sometimes it moves slow. One minute might feel like five, another ten might feel like two. The only constant with time is that it is perfectly measurable and always—in a practical sense—relative only to itself.

A mile might not seem that far if you’ve already traveled a hundred and ten stories might not seem tall next to a skyscraper, but ten stories from a mile is shorter than the first knuckle of your middle finger.

An hour will always be an hour—independent of space.

It just might not seem that way.