Time is not what the clocks say. Time is the pressure behind every breath, the weight behind every moment, the whisper in every "what if." We say it flows—but from where, to where? It never truly arrives; it is always slipping, always becoming, never being.
I feel time not in seconds or minutes but in memories. It stretches and shrinks depending on emotion. An hour of pain is an eternity. A moment of love passes like a blink. Time plays favorites with our feelings, bending and folding itself around what we care about.
Yet we treat time like a tyrant. We plan, we schedule, we obsess over it. We grow anxious when we feel we're wasting it, terrified when we realize how little we have. But what if time is not something to be managed? What if it's something to be listened to—like a song, or a storm?
I think of time as a loop, not a line. The past bleeds into the present. The future haunts us before it happens. Memories invade now; fears shape what hasn't yet come. We're never fully here. Time is the ghost that lives in every room.
And yet, time is the only thing that gives life meaning. Without time, there is no change. Without change, no growth. Without growth, no story. Time is the ink that writes us.
But here's the twist: time consumes everything it touches. Kingdoms, empires, relationships, promises, even stars. All dissolve in time's slow fire. Even we—our faces, our names—are whispers against eternity.
Time teaches me humility. I am not the center of history. I am a flicker. A fragile ripple in a sea that stretches beyond comprehension.
But that doesn't make me meaningless.
It makes this moment precious.
So I breathe. And I listen. And I let the echo of time carry me forward—not to control it, but to be present within it. For just this moment, I choose to exist fully.
And that is enough.