A mirror that shows me who I was, who I am, and who I’ll never be.

I used to think time was linear. A straight line from birth to death, with milestones neatly marked along the way. But now I know better. Time is a spiral. It loops back on itself, dragging me through the same moments over and over again. The same regrets. The same hopes. The same questions with no answers.

I’ve spent years chasing time, trying to outrun it, trying to catch it. But time doesn’t care. It moves at its own pace, indifferent to my desperation. I’ve begged it to slow down, to let me savor the good moments a little longer. I’ve screamed at it to hurry up, to get me out of the bad ones. But time doesn’t listen. It just keeps moving, dragging me along with it.

And yet, there’s a strange comfort in its indifference. Time doesn’t judge. It doesn’t punish. It just is. It’s the one constant in a world that’s always changing. The one thing I can count on, even when I hate it.

I’ve tried to measure time—in seconds, in minutes, in years. But time can’t be measured. Not really. It’s not the ticking of a clock or the turning of a page. It’s the ache in my chest when I think about the past. It’s the flutter in my stomach when I dream about the future. It’s the weight of the present, pressing down on me until I can’t breathe.

I’ve wasted so much time. I’ve spent hours, days, years worrying about things that didn’t matter. I’ve let fear and doubt steal moments that should have been mine. But I’ve also lived. Really lived. I’ve laughed until my sides hurt. I’ve cried until I had no tears left. I’ve loved and lost and loved again. And maybe that’s what time is for. Not to measure, but to feel.

So here I am, standing at the edge, looking back at the moments that shaped me and forward to the ones that will define me. I don’t know the future. I don’t know if I’ll ever make peace with the past. But I do know this: time is mine. It’s the one thing no one can take from me.