time does not pass, it devours
it doesn’t stroll or whisper sweetly, it consumes quietly, efficiently, without hesitation, uou don’t see it coming, you don’t hear the ticking when you’re lost in your habits, your distractions, your plans; but time is there, moving through you as much as you move through it taking without asking,
we call it passing time, but the truth is we are being passed through, and when we look up, something is missing: a season, a relationship, a version of ourselves we swore we’d return to.
