Time

I am not just one. I am the boy with scraped knees, the man with tired eyes, the dreamer who hasn't happened yet. I am the echo of a laugh from ten years ago, and the silence that follows tomorrow's goodbye. I walk forward, but parts of me remain behind — living, breathing, frozen in their time. Each version of me wakes up in their own sunrise, makes their own mistakes, loves their own way. We are strangers sharing the same name. My past me still stares at the ceiling in the dark. My future me is already healing from wounds I haven’t met. And here I am — the middleman between memory and mystery. Time didn’t split me. It *sculpted* me — into fragments scattered across the clock, each one whole in its own right. So when I feel lost, I remember: I’m not alone. I’m *all of me*, and we are all still living — just not at the same time.