Ticking Clocks & Wrinkling Mirrors

There’s something raw and brutally honest about the passage of time. Some folks like to romanticize it with some wisdom shit, others dread it, clutching at Botox syringes and kale smoothies like they’re talismans against the inevitable. I guess I’m somewhere in between, leaning closer to the existential panic side of the spectrum.

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Every birthday feels less like a celebration and more like a reminder that the sand in my hourglass is sliding down faster than I care to admit. It’s not that I hate getting older. I just hate what it stands for: the years I can’t rewind, the moments I didn’t fully appreciate, and the creeping sense that the time left is limited.

Aging is like a cruel teacher. You learn a lot, sure; wisdom, perspective, patience… but the price is steep. You pay in joints that creak when you wake up, gray hairs that sprout like weeds, and the cold realization that you’re no longer invincible.

.   .   .

But here’s the twist; that reminder of mortality? It’s not all bad. It’s like a fire under your ass to stop wasting time, to stop treating life like an endless rehearsal and start living like the main act has already begun.

I look at the years I’ve lived… some glorious, some downright chaotic, and I know I can’t get them back. But instead of drowning in nostalgia, I use them as fuel. A reminder to make the next chapter unforgettable; to embrace the wrinkles, the scars, and the lessons they come with. Because they’re proof that I’ve lived.

.   .   .

Aging isn’t the enemy, regret is. And as long as I’m here, I plan to keep outrunning it. Tick-tock, baby. The clock’s still ticking.