TIME YOUR ASSET

TIME — It Slips Like Sand. You Hold Like Stone. An open palm. Dust on the skin like forgotten galaxies. A clock sinks into the flesh, heavy with Roman numerals and every midnight promise you made to yourself. Sand falls. Not through cracks in the world. Through cracks in your grip. Each grain is a sunrise you didn’t witness. A word you didn’t say. A version of you that died waiting for “later.” Below, coins sleep. Cold. Patient. They can wait forever. Time can’t. It’s already halfway to the ground, forming a dune of missed moments and almosts. You think you’re broke? You’re bleeding time. The one currency that never gets a second airdrop. No rescue wallet. No bridge back. Grief taught me this. Loss tattoos it on your bones. One day you’re holding someone’s hand, the next you’re holding the space where their hand was. So grip. Not tight with fear. Tight with reverence. Close your eyes and feel the clock’s edge cut your palm. That’s life reminding you it’s still yours. Text back. Book the flight. Say the hard thing. Start before you’re ready. Cause the sand won’t pause. And when your palm is empty, the coins won’t matter. Only what you did while the grains fell.