Do you need time?

Time is the quiet tyrant, invisible and insatiable, a master whose hands turn every moment into memory, every breath into a thread unraveling. It strides unseen, yet rules with iron grace, painting our lives in invisible brushstrokes, etching our joys and sorrows with a patient, relentless hand.

Time wears a thousand faces. It is the dawn that whispers promises of tomorrow, the dusk that steals light from the sky. It is the clock’s gentle ticking, each second a silver needle stitching us closer to both the unknown and the inevitable. Like a river winding through valleys of hope and mountains of regret, time flows forward, never pausing to admire the landscapes it shapes, never swayed by pleas for mercy or haste.

It is both blessing and thief, granting youth in one hand, taking innocence in the other. Lovers swear by it—forever, they say, as if time itself could be charmed, as if they could cage its wild heart. But time laughs, knowing that all vows are but echoes that fade, promises like petals falling in a summer storm. It keeps its own counsel, loyal only to the unyielding march toward tomorrow.

And yet, in all its ironies, time is the tender artist, sculpting the wrinkles of wisdom on an elder’s face, leaving memories like fragrant blossoms in the minds of those who linger. It is a paradox of permanence and impermanence, giving meaning to the fleeting, turning moments into mosaics, seconds into stories. For time is not cruel—it simply does not care.

“Tick, tock,” it hums, its voice a lullaby and a warning, as it spins the universe upon an unseen axis, binding the world together with a pulse that neither slows nor stills. It is the heartbeat of history, the measure of all things mortal, the silent sovereign whose rule cannot be broken, whose essence is mystery itself.