Tick tock. Tick. Tock.

Seconds pass, then minutes. Hours turn into days and before we know it, almost half of January is gone already. Am I still in the festive mood, what with Christmas and New Year’s Eve still fresh in my mind and still we have the Chinese New Year to beckon with.

And my thirtieth birthday approaching rapidly as some well-meaning friends keep reminding me. Oh me oh my. Three decades gone and where am I, I wonder?

 
Tick tock. Tick. Tock.

Seconds pass, then minutes. Hours fade into days and week and months and years. Time can be a cruel observer of our lives. Silent but steady and sure. Time will slip us a precise, inconvenient question when you least expect it like a knife into our gut where it hurts the most — what have you done with your life, with your three decades allotted to you thus far?

 
Tick tock. Tick. Tock.

Time won’t wait for me, I know. But I have no answers, no easy resolutions. I have been reading old letters, old words I once penned and I notice this; if nothing else, I have at last learned to smell the damn flowers, even if I ain’t sure if they are roses. Don’t matter, really, when you get yourself a whiff of what it feels like to be alive, now, right now, even as the stopwatch continues beeping and the years keep turning.

 
Tick tock. Tick. Tock.

There ain’t no snooze button on my clock.

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A writer. Loves coffee. Believes in the power of stories.