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 days progress. In darkness, time loses meaning. When death drowns out life, a clock is just an annoying tick. Yet when light approaches, its hands grow gentle, embracing like a metaphor for love you wish to last.
Facing your demons pulls you under. They overwhelm reason, shatter perception. You watch helplessly from outside, weeping, powerless to regain control. The clock spirals into horror, its hands carving wounds into flesh and mind. The lesson only surfaces in echoes, years later. Fatherhood rescued me. Like a monochrome sketch bursting into color, life revived from emptiness. The purpose of simply being present for those who matter. That inward-leaning light, rejecting the shattered timeline beyond repair. Inserting fresh batteries. Winding it up, as my father once did decades ago with his worn alarm clock.
Is time invention, prison, or gift? All three. A human tool for measurement and control. A cage locking us into routines. A gift we mold through choice. We may never conquer it, but we choose how to use it. My borrowed time is a loop, endless cycles of moments. I know my clock dwindles, but I no longer count it down. Its something I can borrow, stretch, and sharethrough thought, action, intent. Glancing at my watch, I no longer see seconds fleeing. I see the life Ive poured into them. Time, once my executioner, now walks beside me as a companion.
**Bonus**
Perhaps times secret is this: it was never ours, yet it shapes us. We chase it, waste it, plead for more. But in the end, time isnt tallied in hoursits weighed in meaning.
Time humbles. It teaches that all is fleetingpain, joy, defeat, triumph. Nothing lasts, and this isnt a curse but grace. Impermanence makes a childs laugh holy, morning coffee deep, shared silence eternal.
When we stop fighting the clock, we find its no foe but a mirror. It shows our choices, loves, battles, and the peace weve claimed. Borrowed time gains value because its borrowed. Life isnt about owning but engaging. We dont possess time; we journey through it. Walk with purpose, and even brief moments ripple through ages.
Now, winding the clock, I dont think of endings. I think of what lingersa smile, a word, a memory. Time will one day close its loop around me, but until then, Ill live each borrowed second as eternity in hiding.
In My Gloomiest Hours, Time Was My Executioner; In Fatherhood, It Became My Thieving Nemesis. Now I Strive to Embrace It Like a Companion, Yet It Continues to Elude My Grasp as Life’s Clock Ticks On.
