Ticking Of The Clock

In just one day, many things can change. Yesterday, you're young. The next day, your time is running out. That's how it felt when I turned twenty two weeks ago.

That day I woke up to the sounds I've gotten used to hear everyday. The sound of barking dogs, of tweeting birds, of the noisy TV downstairs, of hungry chickens, of the singing neighbor.

Then it hit me. I wasn't a teen anymore.

Wow, I've been living in this world for two decades already? That's a lot of years, a lot of days, a lot of minutes. It could be half of my lifetime. And what have I been doing with it?

Is this what happens when your age doesn't start with 1 anymore? It's now 2. Its telling you that you're in the second level of a game. But compared to most games I've played, in this one, you don't have to do much to move to the next level. You just have to eat and sleep and breathe.

When I see people on the streets, I wonder if there's anything they do or have that makes them feel alive. Do they even think about it? Or are they only worried about what to eat, where to get money and how to not die yet? Maybe mere survival is what makes them alive.

Then I think to myself, I have a house, I can eat three meals a day, I study in a good school, we don't live a luxurious life but we have the basic necessities.

So what makes me alive?

Funny how a number can make me feel this way.

I think I'm lucky to have realized this at this point of my life. Most would consider me young. I do myself. But it's more than just the number.

I'm young because I haven't seen enough of the world. I'm young because there are still too many things I need to learn. I'm young because there are still many things I need to understand.

I feel that I've already consumed so much time, but I'm still young. I could be sixty and still be young. Age indeed is way, way more than a count of years. It's a reminder. That life goes on and you either keep up with it or let it pass you by.

Today I wake up to the same sounds. But I hear something else. It's the ticking of the clock, telling me it doesn't care what I do or how old I am, it doesn't stop for anyone.

It's telling me that my time is not running out. Because I don't own it in the first place.

It's not time's fault that I haven't experienced enough to say that I have lived. That I haven't found the thing that makes me alive yet.

It's never time's fault.

But for as long as I can see the clock doing its same old cycle, I can knock on any door and it's up to me to push it open or find another one.