What is Time [Part 3]

When metaphors became memory, and the essay wasn’t enough.

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-🏴‍☠️-Author’s Note-🏴‍☠️-

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I had already written this essay. Fully polished. Fully structured. All the metaphors in place, all the thoughts mapped out with precision. But when I read it back, over and over, it felt wrong.

Too clean. Too preachy. Too far from how my mind actually works.

So I stopped trying to explain Time like a professor turned yoga instructor, and instead let it unfold the only way that ever feels real to me: as a conversation.

Now, for the record, I don’t talk to ghosts. I don’t have voices in my head. But when I’m wrestling with the kind of ideas that don’t come with answers, this is how it happens. It’s a dialogue. An internal back and forth with the part of me that doesn’t flinch. The one that cuts through the noise, calls bullshit when needed, and stays long after everything else has left.

This piece isn’t meant to teach. It’s meant to track, how one thought becomes another, how metaphor becomes memory, how philosophy becomes survival.

If it feels like eavesdropping, that’s the point.

Burned the polished version. This is the real one.

-🏴‍☠️-Essay-🏴‍☠️-

---

Scene 1: Morning Visit

The sun was creeping through the trees, low and mean. Black flies were already knocking at the truck tent’s door, hungry for their pound of flesh. My eyes were still fogged with campfire smoke from the night before, but my head was clear.

Best decision I ever made, quitting drinking. The haze doesn’t visit me anymore. Not the way it used to.

I sat up slow, for no real purpose other than to enjoy the pace this morning had promised. Before I could smile at the day ahead, exploring and writing next to Nash Stream outside the ghost town of Reddington, the smell hit me.

Cigarette smoke and bourbon.

He was here. The version of me I thought I buried. My brother in arms. My shadow in chaos.

Perched on the cooler like a gargoyle, balancing like a man with no debts. Holding my journal in one had, flipping the pages with the other. Same clothes as last time. Same grey Patagonia cap, brim frayed. Blue and grey flannel hung loose on his frame, sleeves rolled. Pants tired. Boots scuffed, laced to the top. Soles rounded from too many miles.

He didn’t fit in this world, this society, this peaceful nook of Maine. But truth is, neither do I. I guess we have that in common, only needed when chaos arrives, missed only when society slows down long enough to see what it cast aside.

But he always shows up when I need him. Never when I ask.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “Not today.”

“Too late,” he said, casually flipping through my journal like it was a diner menu. “Already started.”

He didn’t even look up. He had that familiar blend of contempt and curiosity. Like a man reading his own obituary. Half insulted. Half impressed.

He shifted on the cooler, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with the same Zippo I’d carried through twenty years in the Corps. A gift from an old friend. That Zippo had been to hell and back too many times.

Maybe he had too.

“What the fuck are you writing this week?” he asked, half laughing. “Last one was deep, man. Made your own equations? Damn. Too bad the only person who knows how to use ’em is your dumb ass.”

He smirked, blew out smoke like punctuation.

“Oh, and I didn’t see you show up to help. What, too busy terrorizing souls in purgatory again?” I shot back, half-laughing, half-serious.

“‘Let go of the clock,’”

He read aloud in a mock-dramatic voice, ignoring my comeback. He was too deep into the journal now to get distracted with early morning shit talking. Trusty ol’ coping mechanism. Works every time, except with him.

“‘where we’re headed it has no authority.’”

He looked up, deadpan. “What, are we going to Mordor?”

Before I replied, I rubbed my face. Already regretting being awake.

“Funny. You’re a ghost with no pulse and still manage to be a dick.”

“We’ve covered this,” he said, taking another drag. “I’m not a ghost. I’m just the part of you that stayed when everything else walked off. Besides, someone’s gotta be here to edit your sermons before you start mailing them out like gospel.”

He flipped another page.

“And Christ, this reads like you were building a damn philosophy brand. You planning on handing this out in a therapist’s waiting room or carving it into marble?”

I watched his eyes scan my handwriting like he was decoding it, not reading it. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the glitching. Like he was there, but belonged in a broken video game.

“You’ve got some good stuff in here,” he admitted. “Bit dramatic. But you’ve always been that way.”

He cleared his throat and raised the journal like a playbook.

“‘Common sense will limp in this landscape, so let it rest. Hand the wheel to the part of you that senses storms before they arrive…’”

He lowered the book.

“What part is that, exactly? The part that didn’t listen to your gut when you knew something was wrong? Or the part that writes this shit now and pretends we figured it out?”

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t need to.

He wasn’t here for answers.

---

Scene 2: Time as a Person

He stood up and walked a slow circle around the now cold fire pit, journal still open in his hand like he was reciting scripture from memory.

I hopped out of the truck tent, bare feet pressing into the pine needles. Started stacking kindling. If I was going to listen to this, I was going to need coffee. The fire wasn’t just for warmth, it was for the flies. Little bastards were already forming a perimeter. I sparked the JetBoil, letting the hiss and clink fill the space between us.

He didn’t even seem to notice.

He kept reading.

“Picture Time in human form. No smile, no scowl, just a stare polished smooth by centuries of watching. Not kind, not cruel, only contradiction in boots. Sculptor and corrosion, composer and static, the hush between what we say and what we mean.”

He looked up with a half-smirk.

“So... basically me on a bad day.”

I snorted. “On a good day, you at least insult me. This version of Time? Doesn’t even flinch.”

He lit a cigarette and pointed the glowing tip toward the fire pit. “You nailed it, though. Time doesn’t react. Doesn’t guide. Just watches.”

He paused, then read another line.

“Time is the audience that never applauds. It stays after the credits roll, unmoved by your final speech.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said. “You ever notice how no matter what you write, Time’s always in the room but never says a damn thing?”

I nodded, poking at the kindling. “Yeah. But it remembers everything. Doesn’t comfort. Doesn’t correct. Just… stays.”

“Exactly,” he said. “It doesn’t carry you through grief. But it witnesses it. And that’s worse in a way. You feel it standing there, arms crossed, waiting for you to collapse.”

He blew smoke into the air and kept going.

“It carries fragments you tried to bury, anniversaries that ache, names you no longer say, laughter that echoes in empty rooms.”

I stopped messing with the fire and looked at him.

“You think Time actually gives a shit?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “And that’s the point.”

“Sympathy would imply interference. And interference would make it human.”

I sat down on the truck bed. The fire finally caught, flames licking up from the coals.

“So not God. Not Fate. Not even Justice,” he said. “Just... presence. Cold, patient, and inevitable.”

He crouched near the edge of the pit and dragged a stick through the dirt.

“It was there before your first breath, waits at your last, and shadows every heartbeat in between.”

“Not a villain,” I added quietly, remembering my own line.

He nodded. “Not a guide either. Just the silent extra in every scene, arms folded, noting that the moment you read this line is already gone.”

He let the silence stretch, then looked at me.

“You write like you want it to be something more.”

“Don’t we all?” I said. “But wanting doesn’t make it less quiet.”

He stood back up, stretched, and flicked ash toward the flames.

“Time’s not quiet,” he said. “We just talk too loud.”

---

Scene 3: Time as Place

The fire was finally holding. No more smoke, just a steady crackle and enough heat to keep the flies at bay.

The JetBoil hissed quietly beside it. The cup clicked into place as the water rolled to a boil, and I poured two cups from the packet of instant I kept in the truck. I passed him one without speaking.

He pulled a flask from his jacket pocket, popped it open, and poured a long stream into his cup.

Then he held it out to me, eyes never leaving the fire.

I shook my head and held up my hand.

He nodded. “Just checking.”

We drank in silence for a moment. The only sound was wind in the trees and the faint spit of boiling water against the burner’s baseplate.

Then he spoke.

“Not a destination but a ground that rises under you, even when you believe you stand still. Walls are stacked moments, frail ash carrying the scent of every choice. You breathe the structure. You carry it on your boots.”

He wasn’t reading this time. Just remembering it.

“You ever feel like you’ve been walking in circles?” he asked. “Like every trail leads back to some version of yourself you thought was buried?”

I nodded. “That’s half my life.”

He looked down at his boots.

“You carry all of it. Whether you want to or not. It clings.”

He reached for the journal again and flipped to another page.

“Childhood shrinks into a distant meadow. The future retreats like a mirage on a ridge. The present perches on a ledge that crumbles when you look both ways.”

He let out a dry laugh. “The present doesn’t just crumble. It punishes you for noticing.”

I stirred the fire, not answering.

“You think Time is a road,” he continued. “But it’s not. Roads go somewhere. This?” He gestured around the woods. “This is terrain. Uneven. Full of traps. The ghosts don’t come from the past. They live here.”

“Ghosts haunt the avenues: former selves, discarded possibilities, questions you never asked. They mutter from park benches, sip from empty cups. You nod and move on; knowing the benches become traps.”

Then he laughed. “Look, you even put me in the essay.”

He took a sip, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flannel.

I smirked. “I thought you said you weren’t a ghost. Don’t get butthurt. Plus, you hate park benches. Too easy for a bird to shit on you. Or worse, some stranger starts telling you about their childhood while you’re just trying to watch ducks and geese throw hands.”

“You ain’t wrong, I hate park benches,” he muttered. “They always feel like confessions waiting to happen.”

I snorted, almost spitting out my coffee. “You hate people talking to you.”

“Same thing,” he said. “Especially the ones who show up with good intentions and zero self-awareness.”

He looked back at me, more serious now.

“You’ve written Time like a place you keep trying to map. But you’re always arriving after it’s already vanished.”

He paused, then said it softly.

“Time as a place is not heaven or abyss, not battlefield or sanctuary. It is the collapsing corridor between what has been and what might become and you notice you were there only after it has vanished behind you.”

I didn’t respond right away. Just stared into the fire.

He sat down beside me.

“You keep walking like it’ll all eventually make sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “But walking’s still better than sitting on the damn bench.”

---

Scene 4: Time as a Prison

The fire had burned down to hot coals: low, steady, hypnotic. I dropped a few logs on, just enough to keep it alive without needing to babysit it.

Then I pulled out my chair. Not just any chair. My chair.

One of those low-slung, mini hammock-style setups I stole the idea for from a fellow softball parent last spring. First time I sat in theirs, I knew I was done pretending that regular folding chairs were enough. I leaned back, arms behind my head, and took in the trees swaying against the morning sky. Coffee cooling in my hand. The fire crackling just enough. Everything around me said peace.

That’s probably why he waited until right then to ruin it.

He stared into the fire, eyes low, voice steady.

“Time does not slam the cell door. It lets it click shut like a polite reminder. By the moment you notice the lock, you are already pacing inside.”

I didn’t flinch, but I didn’t answer either. He didn’t need me to. He could see it.

“That’s what happened, isn’t it?” he said. “You thought you were building structure. Turns out it was a cage.”

“You wake inside routine and call it structure. Alarms masquerade as motivation, deadlines as purpose, exhaustion as proof of progress.”

He turned toward me, his face unreadable under the frayed brim of his cap.

“You tape landscape posters on the walls and name them windows. You paint the ceiling blue and swear you can see sky. Time nods, amused. It quarried every stone, mortared every second, and left no cracks.”

I looked at the sky. It really was blue… but now it felt painted.

“You think I did this to myself?” I asked.

“I think you had to,” he said. “For a while. That structure kept you alive.”

He shifted in his seat, took another slow sip from his mug.

“But now you’re still sitting in it. And the door’s been open for years.”

“Distractions hang like mobiles overhead, bright enough to keep you from clawing at the bricks.”

“You catalog grief, fold ambitions, stack regrets, give the cell a nickname: Home.”

I let out a breath through my nose. Not quite a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

“I rarely am,” he said with no joy in it.

“When you beg for release, when you insist you have earned daylight, Time does not look up from its ledger. Healing earns no parole.”

He let that one settle, then added, “Time doesn’t owe you a second chance. Doesn’t care if you served your sentence. It’s not a warden. It’s just... consistent.”

I stared into the woods.

“How many people you think live that way?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Most. But only the strong ones make it look like freedom.”

He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees.

“Time never tortures. It simply waits while you do it yourself. You spend days like counterfeit coins, sprint in place, scroll feeds, chase bottles, swear that motion equals meaning. Time just watches, certain you will collapse first.”

I looked down into my cup, now empty. I set it on the ground beside my boot and leaned deeper into the chair.

“The habits that once saved you are now iron bars. Repetition turned the key. You stopped testing the handle years ago; the lock only grew quieter.”

I shook my head. “You know the worst part?”

“What?”

“I thought freedom showed up when I quit counting days.”

He nodded, finishing my sentence for me.

“Time kept count anyway. Precise. Surgical.”

We sat in that quiet for a while. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that creeps in when you realize you’ve survived something that still owns pieces of you.

He didn’t look at me when he said it.

“Time as a prison does not crush the weak. It waits for the strong to grind themselves to dust.”

---

Scene 5: Time as Currency

The fire was steady now. Warm, low, and crackling just enough to remind us we were still alive and not just remembering.

I leaned back in the chair, eyes tracing the tips of the trees as the wind moved them like breath. Without a word, he reached over, took my cup, and walked it back to the JetBoil. It hissed, sputtered, then filled the cup with another dose of liquid clarity.

He handed it back to me.

“Thanks,” I muttered. He flipped me off with a grin stretched halfway across his face.

“Figures,” I said, raising the cup in mock salute.

He lit another cigarette, the scratch of the flint wheel cutting through the woods like a punctuation mark.

Then he said it, low, without ceremony.

“If Time was a currency, you arrive with an empty ledger. No trust fund, no secret dividends, only a meter already spinning toward zero.”

He paused, inhaled, then exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Hours leak before you can name them. Some fling minutes like tourists tossing coins into fountains. Others clutch seconds until they crumble. Nobody opts out. Every breath is a transaction.”

I nodded, warming my hands around the cup.

“Attention is the coin, presence the receipt.”

“Every yes drains the account,” I added, mostly to myself. “Every no plants a seed.”

He tapped his temple with two fingers. “See? You remember the important ones.”

He took a long pull from his cigarette, then looked out at the horizon like he was scanning for old debts.

“Small talk skims the balance, meetings rob in daylight. You burn the last glow of evening to keep someone else warm, then wonder why you shiver.”

He looked over at me, eyes sharper now. “How many nights did we give away like that, spending our currency on those who wanted only to steal it?”

I didn’t answer. He already knew.

“Youth feels rich. You wager entire weekends on hollow thrills and tip whole seasons to people who forget your name.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “And then you barter fatigue for productivity, tenderness for deadlines… love for whatever’s left in the dish.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just nodded, took another drag, and let the smoke drift upward like a signal I couldn’t read.

“Wise spending looks ordinary. Staring out a window on purpose. Letting boredom breathe. Sitting with someone in shared quiet and calling it enough.”

I watched the steam rising off the coffee. “Idleness terrifies people,” I said.

“No argument there.” he replied. He turned toward me, and this time there was no grin. Just a quiet space that let the truth arrive on its own.

I spoke before I thought to filter it. “I would spend every dime I have left for them.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t question who I meant.

“I know you would,” he said. “And you’ve come a long way, spending that coin on what actually matters. For your girls. For you.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice steady. “But just make sure you’ve still got something in savings. They’ll need you to.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak. He finished the thought for me.

“Invest where breath slows and eyes meet. Pay generously to joy. Guard against counterfeit obligations. Never swap a living moment for the mirage of permanence. That trade always defaults.”

I sipped the coffee slowly, grateful it was hot enough to burn the frog that had formed in my throat.

---

Scene 6: Time as an Enemy

The creek was waking up. Birds were louder now, still early enough for them to hunt breakfast. He pulled the bear bag down and dug out the breakfast container. Grabbed two plates, slapped on biscuits and bacon from the night before. Cold, just the way I like it.

The fire popped, just enough heat to keep the pterodactyls at bay, bloodthirsty mosquitoes always know how to ruin a good creekside morning. We didn’t talk for a bit, just sat in it. The kind of stillness that somehow feels louder than noise.

He stood at the tree line again, journal back in hand. Pages open like scripture. His voice low.

“Time as an enemy chooses the battlefield. A hospital corridor humming fluorescent blues. A baby monitor counting breaths. The instant your father forgets your name.”

There was no anger in his tone. Just tired reverence. Like reading a list of friends we couldn't save.

“Time never swings a weapon; it is the weapon. It’s cruelty is choice. Speak or regret. Act or lose. Time loads the gun, places it in your trembling hand, then waits to watch the outcome.”

Shit, I thought, that line hurt. Mainly because it’s true. We’ve lost too many friends to Time as the enemy. Maybe one day we’ll figure out how to save more.

I shifted in my seat, grabbed the half empty cup of coffee like it could protect me from what was coming next.

He didn’t move closer. Just stood there, half in shadow, half in the morning light.

“It kills by inches. Sharpness blunts. Speed leaks. Futures fade like ink left in rain.”

“And the worst part?” he said, eyes locked on the journal. “It pats your back and whispers, ‘Don’t worry, you still have time,’ while sweeping another hour into its sack.”

I swallowed hard. Felt the burn behind my eyes but kept it in. “All those hours I wasted… years, even.”

He walked over finally, crouched and tossed another log into the fire. Still watching me.

“Yeah,” he said. “We both know the truth of that.” He stood again, brushing ash from his hands.

“You lunge to seize it, to pin it against the wall, but Time will not meet your eyes. The moment you pause to aim, it pockets the second and walks on.”

He pointed to the journal. “It’s not your fault. Not entirely. They don’t teach you this shit.”

He lit another cigarette, dragged it deep, and exhaled like he was releasing old ghosts. He flicked the ashes into the fire, and watched the smoke spiral. Like memories we never managed to hold onto.

“People love the word ‘sacrifice,’” he said. “Like it’s some holy thing. But they never count the cost. You gave too much. We both did. And Time? It never asked permission. It just kept taking.”

I didn’t respond. Not this time. What could I say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse?

He looked back at me, face harder now. Like stone that used to be soft. Then his voice dropped.

“Yet the blade cuts both ways. Each second can be honed. Say the words that rattle your ribs. Do the deed that stalls your breath. Carve away the useless. You will not defeat it. No one does. But you can die standing, presence held like steel, regrets trimmed short, eyes open as the clock claims its final due.”

I looked down at my hands. I always do when I get goosebumps. “That’s what I’ve been doing. Or trying to. Standing up to a force that’s gonna take me down no matter what.”

He nodded. “Die last.”

“Die last,” I said, barely above a whisper. I turned away, not to escape him, but to let that moment land without crumbling under it.

---

Scene 7: Time as Love

He went back to the cooler, popped the lid, and pulled out my Nalgene. Condensation slid down his hand. He tossed it to me without a word, flicks of cold water hitting the fire with a hiss.

Then he brushed his palms on his pants, like he was trying to wipe off something that wouldn’t come clean.

He sat back on the cooler. The journal was still there, waiting.

Before he began reading, he looked up at me with eyes that held no warmth. Only the distant sorrow of someone who remembers what love once felt like but can no longer reach it. In the hollow where his heart had been, there was only silence now. A void too used to the dark to welcome anything gentle. He wouldn’t feel what this part carried. He couldn’t. Love was something he gave up to survive.

“I’m glad she’s in here,” he said. Eyes fixed on the paper. Not on me.

I didn’t reply. Just waited.

He tapped the page with his thumb like it was sacred. Reading every line like he was trying to remember a language he’d once known.

I let the breath out slow through my nose. Looked up at the trees instead of him. “Yeah. But I didn’t finish the section. Didn’t think I needed to. I already know the answer to this riddle. Like how she doesn’t ask me to be fixed. How she waits... even knowing I might never come back whole.”

I recited a line from memory:

“You don’t remember when it started touching you differently. Slower. More deliberately. Sometimes with reverence. Sometimes with pain. If Time were love, it would know where to place its hands to calm your weary heart. It would give you space to heal, and offer no reprieve. Because Time would know that the only thing that can heal wounds like this… would take its very essence: time.”

I still avoided eye contact, for his sake more than mine. His eyes were locked on the journal, trying to feel what he no longer could.

“It would linger in glances. Hang in unfinished sentences. Leave its taste in the back of your throat like a goodbye you didn’t say fast enough. Mending your scars like they’re altars.”

He threw the journal onto the bed of the truck. Took out another cigarette and lit it. This time not out of ritual, but pain. Frustration from being denied the feelings he once buried and now couldn’t dig up.

He knew he couldn’t help me here. Not with this kind of love.

I picked up the journal, and began again.

“It wouldn’t sleep. It would wait. It would smell like nostalgia and sound like a song you’ve never heard but somehow already know every note. It would feel like first touches and last chances. The moments just before it all changed and the silence right after.”

I finally looked at him, though his eyes were fixed on the fire.

“This last part… this was the hardest to write,” I said. “Because it’s the could’ve been. If you didn’t come back. If you didn’t keep me from my gallows. If you didn’t force me to slow down long enough to see where I was headed.”

“But if Time was love, it would also give you entire years that feel like a single breath. Then trap you in seconds that last a lifetime. It stretches one memory across your ribs until your chest aches, then presses itself into your dreams with a softness that almost makes you forgive it. Time as a lover doesn’t comfort. It haunts. It teaches you how to long. Not for what you had but for what almost was. For conversations that never made it out of your mouth. For versions of yourself you were almost brave enough to touch. It teaches you to ache for ghosts that never lived…”

He cut me off, “Enough… I get it,” he said, while standing up. He waited a moment, then continued. “You still carry the pain, don’t you? All those near misses. All those versions of you that could’ve been better, if only you’d started this path sooner.”

I stood too, just enough so he’d see I wasn’t hiding from this.

Grabbed another log, fed it to the fire.

“I do carry that pain,” I said. “But now it’s a reminder, not a burden. It shows me how far I’ve come. And gives me hope for what’s ahead.”

I looked straight into the flames.

“Time stops for no man. So I won’t either. I’ll keep showing up. Even when I don’t know how. That’s what this metaphor taught me. If time has no ending, then neither does her love. She’ll stand with me, just like Time, until there’s nothing left in the bank to cash.”

He met my eyes. No smirk. No shadow. “Don’t ever fucking forget it.”

---

Final Scene: Conclusion

The journal sat between us, pages open to nowhere in particular. The wind flipped them on its own. I didn’t stop it. Felt fitting.

The ghost didn’t speak right away. He looked toward the trees like he could see something just beyond them. Maybe he could.

“You covered a lot of ground,” he said finally. Then he glanced over at me.

“Keep it up, dude. The last essay, you used your brain. But this… you used your heart.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get cocky,” he muttered. “You don’t need compliments or reassurance. You know where you’re headed. And this…”, he tapped the journal twice, “this proves it.”

He didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Like truth that didn’t need to shout.

“You weren’t writing about Time,” he added. “You were writing about yourself. And that’s what makes it matter.”

I didn’t argue, because he was right. He started walking toward the creek, eyes following the path it cut through the woods. Letting the silence stretch just long enough to sting.

“You didn’t hide behind someone else’s philosophy,” he said, still facing the water. “Didn’t quote your way to clarity. You asked your own damn questions and followed ’em into the dark.”

He turned to look back, eyes softer now. Steady. “That’s rare. Most people just borrow their beliefs and call it wisdom.”

He stepped toward the trees. The forest didn’t notice, but just before the dark swallowed him, he looked over his shoulder.

“We ain’t done yet.” There was that grin. “Burn the ships. Burn the bridges. Just make sure it lights the path.”

Another step. Then another. “I’ll be back.”

“Counting on it,” I said under my breath.

And just like that, he was gone.

Just me and the journal. Still open. Still unfinished. So I picked up the pen.

And kept going.