The Passage Of Time


Time filters through our fingers. It’s in no state to be held, it can only be watched. It can never be stopped, understood, or manipulated. It’s royalty, reigning supreme, the only consistency.

But sometimes it doesn’t feel genuine. How the spring sun shines in early May, the infant leaves rustling religiously. First, they’re tied to tree tops. They’re loud, boisterous, and free, evergreen with possibilities. Over time, they meet their demise. Whether purposefully plucked by school children or burrowed through by slimy green caterpillars, leaves are left to rot. But with grace, they resurrect every year.

The passage of time is visible, countable to the second but ultimately uncontrollable. We cannot stop the earth rotating, the sun from spiralling, or father time from trudging forward.

In small, sudden, hidden moments, Tuesday morphs into Saturday, Sunday blues conjure on cold Wednesday evenings, and not even our favorite films can make that feeling pass.

But we look back out of habit to reflect. Three years ago feels like last week, but last week feels like three years ago.

We see time is obvious in our bones, our skin, our eyes. In the aging of our most beloved, or how everything looks the same day after day, only for us to realize the years melted our skin, wrinkled the corners of our eyes, and blessed us with laughter lines.

Time gifts happiness. Moments which spark side-splitting laughter until our stomachs almost burst with bliss. In flashes of intense ecstasy, we weep with happiness. A growing warmth overwhelms us when lounging with loved ones—we feel safe in their company.

But time grants sadness too. The gloomy days where rain pours inside our head, storms brew inside our chest, and our limbs are tied to the earth with grape vines. We belong in a puddle, a damp hole in the ground; the earth has claimed us.

We’re mentally tied down with tin cans put together with string; the potential gossip grips us more than real words do.

But time always moves forward, completely oblivious to our feelings; it owes us nothing.

But we owe it everything.

The passage of time is a rite to all. It has no sides and gifts just one thing: a lifetime.