Time Is a killer, and we are its prey

Time is cruel. They say it is the greatest healer, but I know better. Time does not heal; it only takes. It steals moments, dreams, and futures. It snatches away the breath from your lungs and leaves you gasping, knowing that there will come a day when you will not inhale again. Time is not a friend, never , it is a silent thief that has been stealing my life grain by grain, second by second. And now, the hourglass is moving too fast.

I am running out of time.

It’s funny how, when you’re healthy, time feels infinite. You make plans. You say, “I’ll do it next week.” You push things aside like you own the years ahead of you. You waste time as if you have the luxury to do so. But when you are sick, when you are counting down your days instead of making plans for them, every minute is a weight, every hour is too short, and every day feels like it is mocking you. Because you know that there is no next week. There is no next year. There is only now, and even that is slipping through my fingers too quickly.

I want to scream at the world. I want to grab people by the shoulders and shake them, make them understand what I understand now: that time is not something you can take for granted. It is not a promise. It is not a certainty. It is a cruel, fast running illusion, and once you realize that, it’s already too late.

I am angry.

Angry at the world for moving on without me. Angry at people who complain about the smallest things when I would give anything to have those small worries instead of the nightmare I am living in. I am angry at those who waste their time because they don’t realize what a luxury it is to have it. I want to grab them and shake them and scream.

I used to believe in fairness. That good people get good lives and that fate is just. But it isn’t. The world is random, and life is unfair. People waste years doing nothing, and then there are people here, wanting, begging for more time. But the universe is silent. The sky does not hear my prayers. The walls of my room only reflect my screams back at me.

I see people laughing in the streets, walking in the sunshine, making plans for the future, and I feel like a ghost already. Like I have been cut off from the world of the living, watching from behind an invisible wall that I can never break through. I am still here, and yet, I am already being left behind.

And I am sad.

Sad for the things I will never get to do. I will never see another sunrise without wondering if it will be my last. I will never love the way I always wanted to. I will never grow old. I will never have the chance to be reckless because my body has already betrayed me before I had the chance to live.

People tell me to be grateful. To cherish the time, I have. What a joke. I don’t want to cherish moments; I want more of them. I don’t want to find meaning in my suffering. I want to erase it. But I can’t. I am trapped in this body that is failing me. And the worst part? No one can stop it. The doctors talk in soft voices, using words like “we’ll try our best” and “let’s hope for the best.” But I see it in their eyes. They know.

They know I don’t have much time left.

What do you do when time is no longer on your side?

How do you wake up in the morning knowing that the day ahead might be one of your last? How do you say goodbye to a world that doesn’t even notice you’re leaving? How do you let go when all you want to do is hold on?

I don’t know how to say goodbye. I don’t want to. People cry when they visit, and I hate it. Their tears don’t change anything. Their sadness doesn’t give me a single second more. They walk in with heavy hearts and walk out relieved that they are not me. They go back to their lives, their problems, their small, meaningless worries. They continue to believe they have all the time in the world.

I hate them for it.

I hate the world for spinning like nothing is wrong. I hate the sun for rising, the stars for shining, the clocks for ticking. I hate that my time is running out while the rest of the world moves on, oblivious to the fact that I am being left behind.

I hate myself for being so helpless.

And I hate waiting.

Because that’s what I’m doing now. Waiting for the inevitable. I wake up every day wondering if this is the day my body will fail me completely. I lie in bed at night wondering if I will wake up in the morning. I listen to the sound of my own heartbeat, wondering how many more beats it has left.

It is a cruel, unbearable kind of waiting.

They say you should live like you are dying. Like every moment matters. But how do you do that when the knowledge of your own mortality is crushing you? When the weight of your limited time suffocates you more than the illness itself?

How do you live when you are too busy dying?

I used to make lists of all the things I wanted to do before I died. Places to see, experiences to have, dreams to chase. Now, I make lists of the things I will never get to do. The places I will never get to visit. The books I will never get to read.

And it breaks me. It tears me apart.

I think of the people I will leave behind. My family. My friends. Do they know how much I love them?

Will they remember me the way I want them to?

Or will I become just another name, another framed photo on the wall?

I wonder what it will feel like in the end. Will it be quiet? Will it be peaceful? Or will it be like this—this endless, unbearable waiting?

I don’t know.

All I know is that I am not ready.

I am not ready to let go. I am not ready to disappear. I am not ready for the world to forget me.

But time doesn’t care.

The hourglass is moving too fast.

And I don’t know how to stop it.