Short Story | Fiction

It’s Time

Hello, Time. Can we talk?

Make it quick. Don’t waste me.

You’re awfully blunt.

Well, you’re awful. Why don’t you just get straight to the point?

Fine. They say you heal all wounds.

I don’t.

Wait, I haven’t asked any questions yet.

That’s because you’re making a question based on a wrong idea.

Which wrong idea?

That I heal wounds. I can’t. That’s not what I am.

What are you not?

A healer. A doctor. Someone or something that repairs. I don’t fix things; I wear things down. My job is to make everything old, obsolete, forgotten.

But that’s because you’re the harbinger of the new! As they say, “Time will tell—”

No, I don’t either. I have nothing to tell.


But you – you and your kind – are getting me wrong. Past, future: these are just your human perceptions. I am Now. I am Here.

I don’t understand.

Take it this way: is the Sun moving across the sky, or is it simply the Earth moving around the Sun?

Of course, our planet is the one moving…

Your planet. I belong everywhere. I am universal.

Fine. My planet, Earth, goes around the Sun…

So the Sun is not moving?

Yes, yes. I just said…

Is it really not moving? In space? Within the Milky Way? Around the cosmos?

What’s that gotta do with—

It has everything to do with me. Me, by which you’ve determined distances and existences. Me, by which you’ve recorded measurements and discoveries. Me, which you’ve tried to understand and unravel and conquer. Me, your ever-loving tyrant: the inescapable prison of your mortality.

Wait, we’re getting off-topic here! That’s not what I’m asking about…

Do you even understand your own questions?


Have you ever thought whether these questions of yours matter when you’re gone? When I, as you humans would say, passes you by?

But, I was just—

I have no concern for your human emotions. Not your heartaches, your joys, your tears, your rage nor your melancholies. Sentimentality may have been ascribed to me, but don’t get me wrong: in due me, I forget. I don’t care. I keep moving on.


I wish I knew how to move on…

You know; you just refuse to. Because you believe that I am gold— that you can make some memories valuable with me as your currency. That you can turn experiences into treasures because of me. You fancy these into your reality, because you’re afraid. Of me.

Afraid of you?

Because everything fades in me. Colors, lyrics, melodies, shapes, conversations, stories, meanings, faces, voices, life. I am an abyss; I am Oblivion.

I don’t believe you. I can’t believe you. I believe that you, Time, is good.

I don’t claim to be good or evil. I simply am. It is you, humans, who are quick to judge and label all things as either good or evil. I don’t even get it when you would call something as a ‘good time’ or a ‘bad time’. Who are you to say whether it is so? You base such judgments on your own self-centered sense of morality: how everything is relative to your own comfort and satisfaction.

I wish I had ‘time’ to listen to listen and understand you…

If I can wish, I’d want to understand you, too.

Trust me, we humans barely understand each other, as well.

That’s just it. You talk about ‘making time’, but if you could actually make time, would you really learn to appreciate what’s important? Or would you turn ‘time’ into another consumer commodity that you can place a price tag on, if only to take advantage of your fellows for your own selfish convenience? Make time, hah! Even if you could extend a moment into infinity, with how your hearts are right now— you’d only end up spending it on wasteful whims. But I like your fellows who say they want to ‘find time.’

But that’s just the same as ‘making time’!

You humans forget: words are powerful— especially when you’ve learned to use the right ones. Words that can create, as it had created me. And you have a tiny bit of that magic: maybe not enough to create anything out of nothing, but enough to create something out of everything. That’s why I consider humans who have learnt to ‘find time’ worthy of respect— those who have accepted their human limitations are those who are closest to understanding me well.

Will she ever find you to talk with me?

I can’t tell you that. And I don’t care if she does or does not.


I lost you there.

Then find me. Again and again. Find me on the things that really matter. Find me for the dreams you want to set free from your imaginations. Don’t waste me over your petty problems— though I am not wasted even when you cry, when you’re broken, when you’re alone or lonely. I can’t heal you; but you are designed to be able to do that on your own. It hasn’t been a matter of when you heal, but how you heal. Your body is a ticking clock, only echoing my footsteps (or handsteps, because, clocks). But your soul— that is a compass pointing you where you should be going. When you stop wandering and see where you should go, I will be easier to find. Only then can I become your friend.

Can you really be my friend?

If you really want to know the answer, then trust me that someday, I will tell. So stop taking me for granted, and don’t simply take me to live.

Don’t just use me. Give me.




I will. When you are right.

Well, maybe it’s me.

* * *


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