your life is ending one minute at a time

I sometimes catch myself staring at the clock, watching the seconds tick by. It’s a weird thing to focus on, the passage of time. Every moment slips through my fingers like sand, and no matter how hard I try to hold on, I can’t. The thought sneaks up on me at the most random times—that my life is ending, one minute at a time. It’s not morbid, at least not always. It’s just... true. And there’s a strange kind of clarity in it.

When you think about life like that, everything feels sharper. The mundane becomes extraordinary. A simple cup of coffee isn’t just a caffeine boost; it’s five minutes you’ll never get back, filled with warmth and the faint bitterness of something fleeting. A laugh with a friend feels lighter, but heavier too, because you know it’s another moment added to the pile of things you’ll someday look back on with aching fondness.

But it’s not always profound. Sometimes, the weight of that thought paralyzes me. I’ll waste an hour scrolling on my phone, knowing I could be doing something meaningful, and I hate myself for it. How can I let minutes slip by so easily when they’re all I have? Then again, isn’t it a little cruel to demand every second be meaningful? Sometimes, life is just tired, just routine, just there. Not every moment can be golden. Maybe it’s those filler moments, the pauses between breaths, that make the brighter ones stand out.

There’s a kind of pressure in knowing your time is finite, though. It makes you question everything. Am I doing enough? Am I loving enough? Will I look back and wish I had spent more time saying “yes” instead of “later”? But then, isn’t it exhausting to live like every moment has to count? If I treated every minute as my last, I’d burn out before I even got through the day.

I’ve learned that it’s not about cramming my days with big, important things. It’s about noticing the small ones. The sunlight through my window at 3 p.m. The sound of rain when I’m falling asleep. The way someone’s eyes light up when they’re talking about something they love. Those are the minutes that make life feel less like it’s ending and more like it’s unfolding.

And yes, my life is ending one minute at a time. But that doesn’t mean I always know what to do with them. Some slip by unnoticed, swallowed in the haze of routine. Others feel wasted before they’re even gone, leaving behind the dull ache of regret. I tell myself to pay attention, to be present, but some days, I just don’t have it in me. Some days, time moves too fast, and I can’t catch my breath. Other days, it drags, stretching out into something unbearable.

I don’t always see the beauty in it. I don’t always feel grateful. Sometimes, it just feels like a slow unraveling, like watching a candle burn down without knowing what to do with the dwindling light. And maybe that’s just how it is. Maybe time isn’t something to hold onto or make the most of. Maybe it just is—passing, slipping, disappearing—whether I pay attention or not.

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