You can’t grab a fistful of yesterday. You can’t shake hands with tomorrow. All you ever get is this thin slice of now, balanced like a blade. Time is a quiet sculptor. No applause. No spotlight. Just the slow scrape of the chisel against bone.
It carved the boy out of me and left the man standing there, breathing heavier, thinking longer, choosing battles instead of swinging at shadows.
It touched my anger and aged it into understanding. Touched my chaos and called it consequence. Touched my wounds and turned them into warnings. Mountains crumble under it. Empires kneel. Names fade from stone. Yet somehow a moment of love can outlive a lifetime because time touched it and couldn’t break it.
That’s the paradox. You can’t touch time. But every scar, every gray hair, every lesson paid for in regret is proof that time has been touching you all along.
