During my bleakest moments, time was my executioner. As a father, it turned into a thief. Now I attempt to treat it kindly, yet it still slips away as my story unfolds. In darkness, time loses meaning. When death drowns out life, a clock merely ticks with annoyance. But in the light, its touch softens, embracing like a metaphor of love you wish to cling to eternally.
Facing your demons pulls you deeper. They overwhelm reason, shatter perception. You watch helplessly from the sidelines, weeping, powerless to reclaim control. The clock spirals into horror, its hands carving agony into flesh and mind. Yet the lesson only echoes years later. Fatherhood rescued melike a monochrome sketch bursting into color, life revived. The value of presence for those who matter. That inward glow, rejecting a broken timeline that cannot reset. Inserting fresh power. Winding it up, just as my father did his battered clock long ago.
Is time an invention, a cage, or a blessing? All three. A human design to measure and command. A prison binding us to routine. A gift we mold with choices. We may never conquer it, but we choose how to spend it. My borrowed time loops endlessly. I know my clock winds downyet I no longer see a countdown. Instead, its something to extend, share, through thought, action, purpose. Checking my watch, I dont see seconds fleeing. I see the life Ive filled them with. Time, once my executioner, now walks beside me as a friend.
**Bonus**
Perhaps times secret is this: it was never ours, yet it shapes us. We hunt it, scorn it, waste it, plead for more. Yet its not counted in hours, but in the weight we give each passing instant.
Time teaches humility. Pain, triumph, sorrow, joynothing lasts. This is no curse, but grace. Impermanence makes a childs giggles holy, coffee at dawn deep, shared quiet timeless.
When we stop fighting the clock, we see its not a foebut a mirror. It shows our choices, loves, struggles, and the peace weve claimed.
Borrowed time gains worth because its borrowed. Life isnt about owningits about living. We are times passengers, not landlords. Walk with purpose, and even brief journeys resonate forever.
Now, winding the clock, I dont think of endings. I think of what lingersa grin, a phrase, a moment. Time will one day close its loop around me, but until then, I live each second as eternity in hiding.
In My Darkest Hours, Time Was My Executioner; In Fatherhood, It Turned Into a Thief. Now, I Strive to Embrace It as a Companion, Yet It Continues to Evade Me as My Journey Unfolds.
