Time is such a simple thing of our existence, measured in sunrises and sunsets, in the slow turning of the seasons. I once wished for time to move faster, for childhood to dissolve into something greater, something I could claim as my own. I longed for the day when no one could tell me what to do, when I would be free from the tyranny of curfews and the demands to clean my room, to wash dishes, to return home before the sun kissed the horizon goodbye. Because how could the adults know what was best for me? How could they dictate the way I should live, as if they held the map to a life I had yet to explore?
And so I waited, impatient for the future, eager to carve my own path. I believed adulthood would be my liberation, that freedom would be a gift given to me the moment I left childhood behind. I thought I would be a free spirit, untamed, weightless—a wanderer drifting through life on my own terms.
But time is a quiet thief. It does not knock before entering; it does not ask for permission before it takes. It moves unnoticed until the damage is done. You wake one morning and find that everything has shifted. The laughter that once rang through your days has grown quiet, the people who stood beside you are now blurred silhouettes in the distance, fading like a dream you can’t quite remember. And you—who once swore you would never change—stand before the mirror, searching for the child you used to be, only to find traces of a stranger staring back.
Time is not kind. It does not wait for us to be ready, does not offer us a moment to hold on before it moves forward. It devours the past, leaving only echoes behind. What once felt eternal now exists only in fragments, in the haunting remnants of a laughter that no longer belongs to the present…
I remember the days when I believed life was a straight path, stretching endlessly before me. But now, I see it for what it truly is—a river carrying us forward whether we wish to go or not. And in its ceaseless current, we lose something. We lose memories. We lose people. We lose pieces of ourselves that we will never reclaim…
Perhaps that is the cruelest truth of all. Not that time changes everything, but that it does so without mercy, without pause, without ever looking back. It does not care for the promises made in childhood dreams, nor does it mourn the things it takes. It simply moves on, indifferent to the wreckage left in its wake.
And we—helpless passengers in its flow—can do nothing but follow, watching as the world we once knew dissolves into something unrecognizable, carrying us further and further away from the people we used to be…
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