I have an hourglass in front of me. It's a little one filled with golden sand — a perfect metaphor of time. Now I'm turning it over. The sand begins to fall, forming a pile at the bottom. I'll watch it grow for a little while. It's a bit mesmerizing.

That pile represents the time I won't get back, the time I can't change — the one I'll never live again. Yeah, sad. It was the present for a while, and the future when it was at the top — the part that represents the time still to come. The time I won't be able to fully control. Well, one can try to influence their future, but unpredictability is always lurking.

So what do I have left?

The flowing stream of sand. That's the present, the now. The rest is like wet paper: it becomes shapeless, blurred, and messy. But in that flow, I'm alive. And yes… whether I can afford to waste it is up to me — it's all mine. I'll try not to spill the sand.

Thanks for letting me borrow a pinch of yours.

🍍

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