The notion, or meta-notion since it is not explicit but structures so many other more patent life-comportments, that you are a passenger travelling through time is easily seen to be false but remains effective because you cannot formulate the alternative. All of your thinking is complicit with it. There is consciousness of passing but the presumption is that something concrete is passing, so that the reality of what you are is aligned along the axis of time. If your present being is incomplete it is because the fullness of being is awaiting you up ahead. It's true that you open onto the future but the projection of the missing part onto the future is false. This ought to be clear because of your indifference to your past. The past may make for good stories to tell, but they are always at least slightly comic because of the absurdity of the notion that your present open and incomplete being could ever complete them. This peculiar temporal spell, so hard to break from, is why novels are so amusing but devoid of significance, other than to hint enigmatically at the nature of the illusion. The reflex to seize the verity of the present moment is what propels you into these fantasms of completion, by time, by desire, by assertion.