You scroll back through old photos. A high school you. A college you. A first-job you. A married you. The pictures are dated. The dates are real. The story you tell with them isn't. I was lost back then. I had it together for a while. Things fell apart. I'm putting myself back together now. The dates are arithmetic. The story is the prison.
K split time in two and named the second one psychological time. The clock and the calendar are chronological. They're fine. What's not fine is the narrative you build on top of them. The autobiographical thread that stitches the dates into a story about who you are, who you were, and who you will become. The thread is the prison. The dates are just dates.
The autobiography needs psychological time to exist. Without the past-me / present-me / future-me structure, the autobiography has no characters. Take the structure away and there's no story. Just a sequence of moments that don't need to add up. K wasn't against the sequence. He was against the obligation to make it a coherent narrative starring a central character with an arc.
Notice how heavy the autobiography is when it runs. The replaying of who you were. The defending of who you are. The worrying about who you'll become. The body holds the weight of being a continuous person across decades. Set down the autobiography for an hour and the body relaxes in a way the body didn't know it had been tense.
The calendar will keep going. The dates will keep being dates. You don't have to make them into a story about you. The story was the trap. The dates were never the trap.