Nor does time exist as some kind of medium through which we may travel, either forward or backward. It exists as an abstraction only. It is a construct, composed of mere words. The same may be said of our personal identities, which are also nothing but a fabrication of words. Feral children are dramatic proof of this.
Ideas are but an extension of the universe s energy.
Sometimes we are able to attach the words to images in the environment, sometimes not. At other times we string words together and try to construct or duplicate the image which they might suggest. Again, we are sometimes successful at this task, and sometimes not. If successful, we hit upon concrete realities, which manifest themselves in myriad forms throughout our man-made world, from pottery and arrowheads, to planes, trains, automobiles and computers. If not successful, we but meander through the cloudy world of abstract concepts, endlessly debating, and even writing books, about things which no one will ever truly know, but which, in all likelihood, they will never tire of musing over.