Time Waits for No Man

We are always past the point of no return.
That phrase carries a certain weight—
like we’ve crossed a boundary and can never go back.
But really…
Return to what, exactly?

There is no still point.
No original state.
No moment to reclaim.

The truth is:
we are in motion.
Always.
The universe. The earth. Us.
All of it—unfolding.
Becoming.
And every second that passes?
Gone.
Not stored.
Not paused.
Just vanished into the ether.
Time doesn’t rewind.
It doesn’t offer do-overs.
Not even for the willing.

And yet,
we try to fight it.
To reach back.
To capture.

We build machines.
We make images.
We press record.
But even the camera lies.
It doesn’t capture the moment.
It captures the passing of one.
A slice of something already dissolving.

With a rolling shutter, it’s even worse.
The top of the frame is older than the bottom.
By the time the image is complete,
you’ve already moved on.
You’re not even there anymore.
And yet, we look at the picture and say:
“That’s me.”
As if that moment held still for us.
As if it didn’t die in the process of being seen.

Even the light we trust—
betrays us slowly.

Look at a sunset.
By the time it hits your eye,
the sun has already dipped lower than you see.
You’re not watching the present.
You’re watching the past.
Eight minutes ago, to be exact.
And you call it beautiful.

Maybe that’s the paradox.
The most beautiful things we witness
are already gone by the time we see them.

The camera doesn’t save a moment.
It records absence.
It leaves evidence that a moment once lived—
but it cannot bring it back.
Not really.

And maybe that’s what makes it sacred.
Not that we can hold onto time.
But that we try.

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