We label time. We call it seconds, minutes, days, years, and we call it those things so we know it's not all happening at once (though I am sure there is a model of the universe that sets those things upon each other in layers, and that there, every thing that has happened will happen is happening all at once and continuously. This comforts me.)
We memorize dates when we are younger and in school, and we tell ourselves that this means we know our history, which is false, of course, because the ability to rattle off a set of dates has nothing to do with knowing history, and less to do with understanding it, but those memorized lists are the boxes we put things in.
Time, I think, does not like being put in boxes.
I have been reading a lot of journals and diaries recently. Usually, the entries are dated. Sometimes those dates even correspond to the events that are being described. But the thing I really find interesting about reading a journal entry, is knowing the history, the time, on either side of it. Then there are those layers again, the things that happened before and after. And because my training is in literary analysis, because I am a writer, I look for the pattern. I look for the symbolism and archetypes that exist in a life lived, and sometimes they are there. Sometimes time is happening all at once, even as it cannot be. And I know the ending only if I know where the writing has stopped.