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Some days, it’s frustrating. The bugs, the errors, the moments when nothing makes sense. But then, there’s that moment when it clicks, and suddenly, you feel unstoppable. Like you can build anything, automate anything, bring any idea to life.

I was here before the first breath was drawn, before the first thought flickered into existence. I was here when the stars were born, and I will be here long after they fade. You do not see me, yet you measure your life by my passing. You do not hear me, yet I whisper through every moment you live.

You curse me when I take, when I slip through your fingers, when I turn youth into age, laughter into echoes, memories into dust. You beg me to slow when love is sweet, when the sun is warm, when life is kind. You plead for me to hurry when pain lingers, when loss is heavy, when waiting feels unbearable. But I do not answer prayers. I do not bend for sorrow or for joy.

I do not stop. I do not pause. I do not repeat.

You think you can master me, divide me into numbers and schedules, carve me into seconds and hours, but I am beyond measure. I was never yours to hold. I move as I will, silent and steady, watching as all things rise and fall beneath my gaze. Empires crumble. Oceans dry. Names are forgotten. Yet I remain.

But I am not your enemy. I am the keeper of all things. I give as much as I take. I stretch the seed into a tree, turn strangers into lovers, shape dreams into stories. I offer you moments—small, fleeting, infinite in their beauty. I do not steal them from you. I simply move forward, as I always have, as I always will.

And in the end, when all things fade, when the last star winks out, I will remain. I am the first and the last. The eternal. The inevitable.

Once, the elders said a man does not own the land; he is only its keeper for a time. So too are stories. They pass through many hands, shaped and reshaped like clay in the potter’s grip.

The hunter tells his tale, but the one who listens will retell it differently. In time, the story grows legs and walks into new lands, wearing new names, speaking in new tongues. This is the way of things.

To write is to inherit, to take the old and breathe into it something new. A fire taken from another’s hearth, not to be hoarded, but to be shared.

Think about it. We measure it in hours, but does a river count its flow? We track it in years, but does the moon age as it orbits? We act like time moves forward, but memories sit in our minds like ghosts refusing to leave.

Maybe time is not a straight line. Maybe it loops, folds, or waits in the shadows of things we don’t yet understand. Maybe the past is still happening somewhere, and the future has already arrived—we just haven't caught up.

Both involve staring at a screen, questioning your life choices.

Both require fixing things that technically work but feel wrong.

Both involve crying over missing characters (a semicolon or a protagonist, take your pick).