Once upon a time, there was a time that couldn’t once.
This caused it great consternation, as repitation dulls both sense and memory; it’s an anodyne, and that can’t be good.
Every day, the time would divide itself out of indiscrete amorphous everything and sort itself into some kind of something. This occurred with decreasing motivation, as it appeared to be not merely futile but exhausting.
Every day was the same day, except that it remembered each previous day, re-remembered each motion, re-knew each action. Did the inhabitants know they were repeating? Who can tell? The Time itself knew, and that was enough.
You might, then, think this time in some variant of Hell, or perhaps a clumsy purgatory. (The time WAS clumsy, but not purgatorially so. It was just terrible at basketball.)
Yet in all things done repeatedly, there is both the exterior action, and the interior response.
Or to put it more directly, if one must sing the same song, why not try to sing it more feircely, or more sweetly, or more subtly, or more beautifully, every time? Why not seek out subtle insight, or attempt to understand things which cannot otherwise be known without countless, countless attempts?
Time, after all, passes without our consent, makes change without our consent, but does not own us. Our time is our own to use. We are not trapped; we are entwined in ways both strange and beautiful.