They say that with time, everything changes. Time steals from us. It decides when we meet and when we part. It determines when something is precious and when it is forgotten. But if we really look closer, is it time that changes or is it us?
Yesterday’s companion can be today’s stranger, today’s need can be tomorrow’s discarded memory. We grow, we shift, our wants evolve, and yet we blame the ticking of the clock. Stories fade into photographs, photographs gain value, and suddenly our memories are traded like objects. Childhood ripens into youth, and youth longs desperately for the innocence it lost. Perspectives shift, desires deepen, and still, we whisper that it is time.
A friend becomes an enemy. An enemy turns into a savior. The meanings of relationships reshape themselves before our very eyes. We call it the cruelty of time. Old paths resurface, old friendships reappear, and we dismiss them as coincidences, as though time had arranged it all. Weeks turn into months. Often the letters that once carried hearts across distances turn into mere dust. Even love begins to fray at the edges. And yet, again, we blame time.
But if time were truly guilty, could we not beg it to return what is lost with time? Could we not ask it to undo the pain, to bring back what slipped away? If time really were so powerful, surely it could grant us that. Yet it doesn’t. Because the truth is, time does not change. We do. Our choices, our perspectives, our shifting loyalties, our restless hearts, these are the real culprits.
Time is only the stage; it is we who keep changing the play.
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