⏱︎ The First Hour, The Last Hour ⏱︎

People ask if time has a beginning,  
as if beginnings are gentle things,  
as if the universe didn’t tear itself open  
to make room for us.  

They ask if time will end,  
as if endings are clean,  
as if anything that ever loved or burned  
has learned how to stop completely.  

But I think time is older  
than the questions we keep trying  
to pin it down with.  
Older than language,  
older than light,  
older than the first trembling atom  
that dared to exist.  

And yet—  
time is also unbearably young.  
It begins every time a person  
finally tells the truth.  
It ends every time a heart  
can’t carry its own echo anymore.  

Maybe the universe keeps its clocks  
in the softest places:  
the moment someone forgives themselves,  
the breath right before a goodbye,  
the quiet shift when a life  
no longer fits the shape it used to.  

Maybe time is not a line at all,  
but a wound that keeps healing  
and breaking  
and healing again.  

Does it have a beginning?  
Yes—  
in every spark of courage  
that pulls us out of the dark.  

Does it have an ending?  
Yes—  
in every version of us  
we’ve had to bury  
to stay alive.  

Everything else is motion,  
a long, trembling fall  
through moments that refuse  
to let us stay the same.  

And somewhere in that descent,  
we learn to call it meaning.  

— 𝕃ℝ  🖤

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