The Unforgiving Clock: A Body’s Slow Unraveling

Time does not care for innocence. It does not pause for hesitation or mercy. It moves forward, indifferent, carving its mark upon flesh and soul alike. My body was no exception—it bent and twisted under the weight of years, changing in ways I could not control. And yet, among all the transformations, one stood out, not as a sign of growth, but as a cruel reminder of time’s unfeeling passage.

Childhood: The Illusion of Permanence

When I was young, I believed my body was static, unchanging. My skin was smooth, my limbs unmarked by the wear of years. I ran through fields, climbed trees, and scraped my knees without a thought for what lay ahead. But then, slowly, the first whispers of change began.

At first, it was subtle—a slight heaviness where there had been none before. I ignored it, assuming it was nothing. But my body had other plans. The changes were slow, methodical, as if something beneath my skin was biding its time, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

Adolescence: The Unwelcome Awakening

Then came the storm of puberty, and with it, the undeniable truth: my body was no longer mine. It twisted, expanded, betrayed me in ways I couldn’t comprehend. My chest, once flat and unremarkable, became something else entirely. It grew, not with grace, but with a grotesque insistence, as though something inside me was pushing outward, demanding to be seen.

I remember standing in front of the mirror, pressing my hands against the unfamiliar weight, willing it to stop. But time does not listen to pleas. The changes continued, relentless, until I no longer recognized the reflection staring back at me.

Worse still were the eyes of others. The way they lingered, the way they judged. I wanted to shrink, to disappear, but my body refused to obey. It was as if I had become a stranger in my own skin, trapped in a form that no longer felt like mine.

Adulthood: The Haunting Realization

By the time I reached adulthood, the transformation was complete. What had once been a source of dread was now simply… there. A permanent fixture. A reminder.

But the horror was not in the change itself—it was in the realization that this was only the beginning. Time would continue its work, carving deeper lines, sagging flesh, weakening bones. My body would decay, slowly, inevitably, until there was nothing left but a hollow shell.

I tried to accept it. I told myself this was natural, that everyone goes through it. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I would press my hands against my chest and feel the steady, mocking pulse beneath. A reminder that time was still moving. That it would never stop.

The Inescapable Truth

Now, when I look in the mirror, I do not see growth. I see erosion. I see the slow, methodical destruction of what I once was. The changes that once felt like betrayal now feel like a countdown.

Time does not care. It does not pause. It does not forgive.

And one day, it will consume me completely.