Tick-tock.

Time's starting to feel worn loose and comfortable

and the clouds are moving so smoothly and quickly, I can't help but to believe in progress.

We think of time, mostly unconciously, as a snowstorm. We catch individual snowflakes, individual moments (no one is identical to any other, as I'm sure you know) and say "This is mine" before it melts in our hand. But this is foolish of us. More like a river, you cannot claim any of it, it slips through your fingers, changing it's path ever so slightly.

And I am the textbook example of a 'young adult', I haven't even been an adult for a year now. And let me tell you, there's no such thing as hope or potential, only the illusion of such.

(Ruling us all is chance and luck and nothingness)

But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that sometimes illusions are enough.

And when the sun bursts through the clouds, doesn't it always catch you by surprise?