They say...

time waits for no one.

But tell me...

have we ever

waited for time?

Or are we the ones

forever outrunning the present,

mistaking movement

for meaning?

From our first breath,

an invisible clock

begins writing our names

on the walls of eternity.

Time is not a road.

It is a river,

teaching every stone,

that surrender

is not weakness,

but destiny.

Life arrives in seasons.

The spring of laughter.

The summer of becoming.

The autumn of loss.

The winter of grief.

Every soul must walk through them,

but no two journeys

wear the same footsteps.

Some of us

race toward tomorrow

with empty hands,

only to discover

that speed

is not the same

as progress.

Then we whisper,

"Time will tell,"

as though time

were an old prophet,

hiding tomorrow

behind its back.

Yet perhaps...

time has always spoken.

Through every scar.

Every goodbye.

Every sunrise.

Every second chance.

There is no rewind.

No return.

Only footprints

fading behind us,

while the unknown

calls us forward.

Maybe...

the greatest tragedy

is not that time

waits for no one.

Maybe...

we never slowed down

long enough

to walk beside it.

We spend our lives

running from a shadow...

that was never

chasing us.

And in the end...

we are not

prisoners of time.

We are its heartbeat.

Its footsteps.

Its story.

We are time.

Barby 🫡🖋️