Time is a virtue because it wounds,
and a paradox because it heals.
Aristotle knew: if motion needs a measure,
what measures the measurer?
The Now has no width, yet we live inside its seam
a ghost sewn into a moment that dies as we name it.
Yet here we stand, sparks in the breach
where Non-Being rubs against Light.
Zeno froze the arrow,
but our hearts kept flying.
For the soul is the one traveler
who moves even when time refuses to.
To wait is courage.
To act is courage.
Virtue is knowing which version of yourself
the moment is asking for.
The past pulls like gravity,
the future hums like an unspoken vow
but character is the keel that keeps both tides
from swallowing us whole.
We cradle contradictions like children:
Kill your ancestor, and you erase your name
yet here you are, breathing the proof
that causality can bend without breaking.
Time folds, loops, forgets, forgives.
It is the serpent that eats its tale
to remember its beginning.
I was born between two instants
the place where clocks forget their duty
and memory dreams of being prophecy.
I learned this:
the stillness watching the pendulum
is also the hand that set it swinging.
Call that virtue.
Call that soul.
For time is not line, nor circle, nor cage;
it is the trembling breath
between what we were
and what we dare to become.
The paradox does not want solving
only witnessing.
Stand on the edge of the Now.
Feel the asymptote of breath
lean toward eternity.
You are the flame that measures the darkness,
the witness that outlives the hour,
the unfinished truth the universe keeps writing.
Time kneels only to those
who remain human
while passing through its impossible gates.
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