Time.

Time.

Some say that time is a human concept. Something that we made up to try and make sense of the enigma that is life.

Others try to capture it on their wrists.

Personally, I don’t know where I stand. Coffee does cool faster on chilly winter evenings but I have never really believed in letting the tick-tock of two needles set the course of my life.
Before I left for college, my father said to me, “The next four years will fly away before you realise. Make the most of them.”

There have been many days since then when I felt paralyzed. The darkest cloud refused to rain down and clear the horizon. There have also been weekends that seemed to be over in the blink of an eye.

What I’ve really come to believe is that how fast the hour trickles depends on something that can’t be measured or captured.

It depends on ‘it’.

‘It’ is the abyss we’re staring at.

‘It’ is the exam you have to pull an all-nighter for, or the flight back home that you’ll catch tomorrow. ‘It’ could be the dozen test papers due tomorrow, the laundry that needs washing, the dishes that have to be done or that road-trip with your friends you’ve been planning for forever.

It is that evening you spent playing dumb-charades with your friends, sitting on the cool grass, gazing up at an endless blue sky.

It is also that hour you spent crying in the washroom at 3 A.M., with crimson running down your legs.

The cards have been dealt; the hand, invisible and unknown. What we decide to with our ‘it’ makes up a tiny fleck of our vast infinity.

But no matter what we do, whether we screw up or not, at the end of it all, we’ll always have a story to tell; and sometimes, a scar to hide.