Skip to main content

Invented Time

Image
By
Time does not slip away — it waits. Motionless, silent, watching. You say you have no time, yet time is always there, staring back at you. What you lack is not time, but intent — the courage to claim it, to shape it, to own it before it owns you.

Ah, this tired habit of blaming the clock. As though time were something outside of you, pressing in, closing doors, slipping through your fingers. But time does not run, nor does it flee. It is you who rush past. You who look away. You who declare it lost when it was never anywhere but here.

And time? Time watches. It sees you filling the hours with what must be done, what should be done, what you were told must be done. And you say you cannot, that it is impossible, that you are too busy. But busy with what, exactly? With the things you choose — knowingly or not — over the things you claim to long for.

Yet before the ticking, before the measuring, before the universe itself, there was no time. No hours, no days, no waiting. Only silence, and the possibility of everything. Time was not granted; it was willed into being. The universe expanded, and time began. You expanded, and time began. You create it still — with every decision, every surrender, every moment claimed or left to dissolve into the past.

But not all time is the same. The hours spent working shrink, dissolving into routine, leaving behind only the weight of duty. Yet time spent with those you love expands, stretching beyond itself, pressing into the corners of memory, unfolding into something greater than the moment itself.

And the time given to joy? It was never lost. What is life if not the moments of laughter that interrupt the silence, the play that lightens the weight of the everyday? A life without delight, without the freedom to choose what brings happiness, is no life at all. It becomes nothing more than a list of obligations, a series of tasks completed without meaning, a record of days that passed but never truly left a mark.

And then?

One day, at the edge of it all, it ends. A second. No warning. No rehearsal. They say life flashes before your eyes — but is it truly life you see, or only your choices? The time you claimed. The time you surrendered. The time you swore you didn’t have.

And now? The time that is yours — will you still say you have none? Or will you take it before it is no longer yours to claim?
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Research shows that parental warmth shapes our worldview — how might acupuncture offer a reparative experience in adulthood?

By
  It is becoming increasingly clear that our worldview — whether we perceive life as welcoming or hostile — is shaped far more by the emotional bonds of early childhood than by material hardship or environmental risk. A recent study, published in Child Development , revealed that an adult’s sense of safety, beauty, and benevolence in the world is deeply rooted in the warmth received from parental figures — more so than in their exposure to poverty or danger. This finding resonated with me on a personal level. Time and again, I encounter patients in clinical practice who, despite being outwardly successful and high-functioning, carry an abiding sense that the world is cold, fragmented, even threatening. In acupuncture sessions, it is not uncommon to witness how such emotional imprints — stored not only in the mind, but also in the body — manifest as chronic anxiety, diffuse pain, insomnia, or emotional detachment. Through the lens of Chinese medicine, these states reflect imbalances...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Pause Between Heartbeats

By
Time doesn’t tick. It breathes — unevenly, almost nervously. Sometimes it opens itself like a window you didn’t know was there. And inside that window, someone waits. Not with urgency, not with despair. Just a subtle weight: Will you come? Will you listen? You don’t need to prepare. You don’t need a speech. You only need to stop — to let the world stumble for a moment while you say, Yes, I’m here. That small pause, almost nothing, can be everything. Not everything in the dramatic sense. Everything in the sense of air when it was almost not enough. It’s not about how many minutes. Time has never obeyed clocks. What matters is the shift — leaving the room, the page, the self — to enter someone else’s trembling. Someone asks, not out loud but between words: Can you see me? And if you do — even for a beat — something sacred happens. Not salvation, no. Just a flicker of light that says, You are not alone. And that flicker, believe me, can change a day, a night, sometimes a life....
Post a Comment
Read more

The Progressive Misreading of Silence

By
At 5, I entered rooms like a murmur. I was already listening for something behind the noise — something older than voices, softer than footsteps. “He’s such a well-behaved boy,” they said, smiling with relief. But what they mistook for virtue was only quiet intuition. I was not good. I was attuned. At 11, I had mastered the art of presence without weight. I could sit by the window for hours, watching the wind pass through the trees like thought through the body. “He’s quiet,” they would say — gently, but with a trace of discomfort. They couldn’t name the feeling of someone watching without need. At 17, I was called “mature.” But maturity is not a virtue — it is a scar. I had already seen the shape of endings before others saw beginnings. Friends came to me like tide to stone, hoping to be held. I held them, yes — but not always with words. Sometimes silence is the only honest offering. At 24, my stillness no longer charmed. The world asked for brightness, momentum, performa...
Post a Comment
Read more