Time is happening.
Devastatingly. Quietly. Without asking.
It doesn’t wait for us to feel ready or radiant. It doesn’t flinch when we’re tired or undone.
It just keeps circling.
And I’ve been wondering:
Is that why the part of a clock that tells time is called a face?
Because we carry it, too?
Our faces hold features and hours.
Sleep lost. Joy stretched. Grief etched.
They wrinkle where the sun hit hardest.
They crease from every smirk we tried not to smile.
They reveal what’s been happening and what is happening even when we try to mask it.
These lyrics from Turnstile haunt me:
Time is happening / Ever-passing me
Circle back again / Lost my only friend
Some mornings, I see her in the mirror-the version of me I left behind.
The one who used to get ready with urgency. Who thought the right eyeliner or hair color might fix the ache.
But now they feel like time stamps more than cover-ups.
Each aesthetic decision says: “You lived through that and you’re still here.”
Our faces are surfaces and witnesses.
And makeup? It can be a way to mark the moment. To declare:
Yes, time is happening.
But so am I.
Today, an invitation:
Stand in front of a mirror and look (not to assess or correct) but to acknowledge.
What is your face keeping time of?
What stories does it tell that no one else hears?
You don’t need to rewind or fast-forward.
You’re right on time.